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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




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SAUNTERINGS 



BY 

CHARLES D. WARNER, 

AUTHOR OF "my SUMMER IN A GARDEN. 




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BOSTON : 
JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY, 

(late TICKNOR & FIELDS, AND FIELDS, OSGOOD, & CO.) 
1872. 






Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, 

By JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO., 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 



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THE LIBRARY 
or CONGRESS 

WASHINGTON 



Boston : 
Stereotyped and Printed by Rand, Avery, 6r' Co. 



CONTENTS. 



Misapprehensions Corrected. . , • . vii 

Paris and London i 

Surface Contrasts of Paris and London ... 3 
Paris in May. — French Girls. — The Emperor at 

Longchamps 9 

An Imperial Review .14 

The Low Countries and Rhineland ... 19 

Amiens and Quaint Old Bruges . . . .21 

Ghent and Antwerp . . . . . . .27 

Amsterdam . . . . .; , , .30 

Cologne and St. Ursula . . . . . .37 

A Glimpse of the Rhine .40 

Heidelberg . . . . . , . .43 

Alpine Notes . . . . . . . ~. 47 

Entering Switzerland. — Berne, its Beauties and 

Bears 49 

Hearing the Freiburg Organ. — First Sight of Lake 

Leman . . . 54 

Our English Friends 57 

iii 



iv , CONTENTS. v 

The Diligence to Chamouny 6 1 

The Man who speaks EngUsh . . , . .66 

A Walk to the Gorner-Grat 70 

The Baths of Leuk .76 

Over the Gemmi 80 

Bavaria 83 

American Impatience .85 

A City of Color 88 

A City living on the Past 92 

Outside Aspects of Munich 96 

The Military Life of Munich . . • . . . 104 
The Emancipation of Munich ..... 107 

Fashion in the Streets . . . . . . 1 10 

The Gottesacker and Bavarian Funerals . . .116 
The October Fest. — The Peasants and the King , 120 

Indian Summer 131 

A Taste of Ultramontanism . . . . .134 

Changing Quarters 141 

Christmas Time. — Music 150 

Looking for Warm Weather . . , • iS7 
From Munich to Naples 159 

Ravenna 169 

A Dead City 171 

Down to the Pineta 175 

Dante and Byron 179 

Resting-place of Caesars. — Picture of a Beautiful 

Heretic • . . i8i 

A High Day in Rome . . . ". . .187 
Palm Sunday in St. Peter's 189 



CONTENTS. 



Vesuvius , , . . jgy 

Climbing a Volcano jog 

Sorrento Days 209 

Outlines 211 

The Villa Nardi ....... 216 

Sea and Shore ....,,,. 223 

On Top of the House 228 

The Price of Oranges . , . , , , 232 

Fascination 239 

Monkish Perches . , , , , , , 243 

A Dry Time 248 

Children of the Sun . ...... 252 

Saint Antonino 256 

Punta Delia Campanella 262 

Capri 268 

The Story of Fiametta ....,, 273 

St. Maria a Castello . . , , , , , 280 

The Myth of the Sirens . , • . , , 286 



MISAPPREHENSIONS CORRECTED. 

I SHOULD not like to ask an indulgent and idle public to 
saunter about with me under a misapprehension. It 
would be more agreeable to invite it to go nowhere than 
somewhere ; for almost every one has been somewhere, and 
has written about it. The only compromise I can suggest is, 
that we shall go somewhere, and not learn any thing about 
it. The instinct of the public against any thing like informa- 
tion in a volume of this kind is perfectly justifiable ; and the 
reader will perhaps discover that this is illy adapted for a text- 
book in schools, or for the use of competitive candidates in 
the civil-service examinations. 

Years ago, people used to saunter over the Atlantic, and 
spend weeks in filling journals with their monotonous emo- 
tions. That is all changed now, and there is a misapprehen- 
sion that ^the Atlantic has been practically subdued ; but no 
one ever gets beyond the " rolling forties " without having 
this impression corrected. 

I confess to have been deceived about this Atlantic, the 
roughest and windiest of oceans. If you look at it on the 
map, it doesn't appear to be much, and, indeed, it is spoken of 
as a ferry. What with the eight and nine days passages over 
it, and the laying of the cable, which annihilates distance, I 
had the impression that its tedious three thousand and odd 
miles had been, somehow, partly done away with ; but they 
are aU there. When one has sailed a thousand miles due east. 



viii MISAPPREHENSIONS CORRECTED. 

and finds that he is then nowhere in particular, but is still 
out, pitching about on an uneasy sea, under an inconstant sky, 
and that a thousand miles more will not make any perceptible 
change, he begins to have some conception of the unconquer- 
able ocean. Columbus rises in my estipiation. 

I was feeling uncomfortable that nothing had been done 
for the memory of Christopher Columbus, when I heard some 
months ago that thirty-seven guns had been fired off for him 
in Boston. It is to be hoped that they were some satisfaction 
to him. They were discharged by countrymen of his, who 
are justly proud that he should have been able, after a search 
of only a few weeks, to find a land where the hand-organ had 
never been heard. The Italians, as a people, have not profited 
much by this discovery ; not so much, indeed, as the Spaniards, 
who got a reputation by it which even now gilds their decay. 
That Columbus was born in Genoa, entitles the Italians to 
celebrate the great achievement of his Ufe ; though why they 
should discharge e:xactly thirty-seven guns I do not know. 
Columbus did not discover the United States : that we partly 
found ourselves, and partly bought, and gouged the Mexicans 
out of. He did not even appear to know that there was a 
continent here. He discovered the West Indies, which he 
thought were the East ; and ten guns would be enough for 
them. It is probable that he did open the way to the dis- 
covery of the New World. If he had waited, however, some- 
body else would have discovered it, — perhaps some English- 
man ; and then we might have been spared all the old French 
and Spanish wars. Columbu^i let the Spaniards into the 
New World ; and their civilization has uniformly been a curse 
to it. If he had brought Italians, who neither at that time 
showed, nor since have shown, much inclination to come, we 
should have had the opera, and made it a paying institution 
by this time. Columbus was evidently a person who liked to 
sail about, and didn't care much for consequences. 



MISAPPREHENSIONS CORRECTED. ix 

Perhaps it is not an open question whether Columbus did 
a good thing in first coming over here, — one that we ought 
to celebrate with salutes and dinners. The Indians never 
thanked him, for one party. The Africans had small ground 
to be gratified for the market he opened for them. Here are 
two continents that had no use for him. He led Spain into a 
dance of great expectations, which ended in her gorgeous 
ruin. He introduced tobacco into Europe, and laid the foun- 
dation for more tracts and nervous diseases than the Romans 
had in a thousand years. He introduced the potato into 
Ireland indirectly ; and that caused such a rapid increase of 
population, that the great famine was the result, and an enor- 
mous emigration to New York, — hence Tweed and the con- 
stituency of the Ring. Columbus is really responsible for 
New York. He is responsible for our whole tremendous 
experiment of democracy, open to all comers, the best three 
in five to win. We cannot yet tell how it is coming out, what 
with the foreigners and the communists and the women. On 
our great stage we are playing a piece of mingled tragedy 
and comedy, with what d^noument we cannot yet say. If it 
comes out well, we ought to erect a monument to Christo- 
pher as high as the one at Washington expects to be; and 
we presume it is well to fire a salute occasionally to keep the 
ancient mariner in mind while we are trying our great experi- 
ment. And this reminds me that he ought to have had a 
naval salute. 

There is something almost heroic in the idea of firing off 
guns for a man who has been stone-dead for about four cen- 
turies. It must have had a lively and festive sound in Bos- 
ton, when the meaning of the salute was explained. No one 
could hear those great guns without a quicker beating of the 
heart in gratitude to the great discoverer who had made 
Boston possible. We are tiying to " realize " to ourselves 
the importance of the 12th of October as an anniversary of 



X MISAPPREHENSIONS CORRECTED. 

our potential existence. If any one wants to see how vivid 
is the gratitude to Columbus, let him start out among our 
business-houses with a subscription-paper to raise money for 
powder to be exploded in his honor. And yet Columbus was 
a well-meaning man ; and, if he did not discover a perfect con- 
tinent, he found the only one that was left. 

Columbus made voyaging on the Atlantic popular, and is 
responsible for much of the delusion concerning it. Its great 
practical use in this fast age is to give one an idea of distance 
and of monotony. 

I have listened in my time with more or less pleasure to 
very rollicking songs about the sea, the flashing brine, the 
spray and the tempest's roar, the wet sheet and the flowing 
sea, a life on the ocean wave, and aU the rest of it. To para- 
phrase a land proverb, let me write the songs of the sea, and 
I care not who goes to sea and sings 'em. A square yard of 
solid ground is worth miles of the pitching, turbulent stuff. 
Its inability to stand still for one second is the plague of it. To 
lie on deck when the sun shines, and swing up and down, 
while the waves run hither and thither and toss their white 
caps, is all weU enough : to lie in your narrow berth and 
roll from side to side all night long ; to walk up-hill to your 
stateroom door, and, when you get there, find you have got to 
the bottom of the hill, and opening the door is like lifting up 
a trap-door in the floor ; to deliberately start for some object, 
and, before you know it, to be flung against it like a bag of 
sand ; to attempt to sit down on your sofa, and find you are 
sitting up ; to slip and slide and grasp at every thing within 
reach, and to meet everybody leaning and walking on a slant, 
as if a, heavy wind were blowing, and the laws of gravitation 
were reversed ; to lie in your berth, and hear all the dishes on 
the cabin-table go sousing off against the wall in a general 
smash ; to sit at table holding your soup-plate with one hand, 
and watching for a chance to put your spoon in when it comes 



MISAPPREHENSIONS CORRECTED. xi 

high tide on your side of the dish ; to vigilantly watch the 
lurch of the heavy dishes while holding your glass and your 
plate and your knife and fork, and not to notice it when 
Brown, who sits next you, gets the whole swash of the gravy 
from the roast-beef dish on his light-colored pantaloons, and 
see the look of dismay that only Brown can assume on such 
an occasion ; to see Mrs. Brown advance to the table, sudden- 
ly stop and hesitate, two waiters rush at her, with whom she 
struggles wildly, only to go down in a heap with them in the 
opposite corner ; to see her partially recover, but only to shoot 
back again through her stateroom door, and be seen no more ; 
— all this is quite pleasant and refreshing if you are tired of land, 
but you get quite enough of it in a couple of weeks. You 
become, in time, even a little tired of the Jew who goes about 
wishing " he vas a veek older ; " and the eccentric man, who 
looks at no one, and streaks about the cabin and on deck, 
without any purpose, and plays shuffle-board alone, always 
beating himself, and goes on the deck occasionally through the 
sky-light instead of by the cabin door, washes himself at the 
salt-water pump, and won't sleep in his stateroom, saying he 
isn't used to sleeping in a bed,— as if the hard, narrow, uneasy 
shelf of a berth was any thing like a bed ! — and you have heard 
at last pretty nearly all about the officers, and their twenty 
and thirty years of sea-life, and every ocean and port on the 
habitable globe where they have been. There comes a day 
when you are quite ready for land, and the scream of the 
"gull " is a welcome sound. 

Even the sailors lose the vivacity of the first of the voyage. 
The first two or three days we had their quaint and half- 
doleful singing in chorus as they pulled at the ropes : now 
they are satisfied with short ha-ho's, and uncadenced grunts. 
It used to be that the leader sang, in ever-varying lines of 
nonsense, and the chorus struck in with fine effect, like this : — 



xii MISAPPREHENSIONS CORRECTED. 

I wish I was in Liverpool town. 
(^Ckorus.) Handy-pan, handy O I 

O captain I where'd ship your crew? 

Handy-pan, handy O I 
Oh I pull away, my bully crew, 

Handy-pan, handy O ! 

There are verses enough of this sort to reach across the 
Atlantic ; and they are not the worst thing about it either, or 
the most tedious. One learns to respect this ocean, but not 
to love it; and he leaves it with mingled feelings about 
Columbus. 

And now, having crossed it, — a fact that cannot be con- 
cealed, — let us not be under the misapprehension that we 
are set to any task other than that of sauntering where it 
pleases us. 



PARIS AND LONDON. 



SURFACE CONTRASTS OF PARIS AND 
LONDON. 

I WONDER if it is the Channel ? Almost every thing 
is laid to the Channel : it has no friends. The 
sailors call it the nastiest bit of water in the world. All 
travellers anathematize it. I have now crossed it three 
times in different places, by long routes and short ones, 
and have always found it as comfortable as any sailing 
anywhere, — sailing being one of the most tedious and 
disagreeable inventions of a fallen race. But such is not 
the usual experience : most people would make great 
sacrifices to avoid the hour and three-quarters in one of, 
those loathsome little Channel boats, — they always call 
them loathsome, though I didn't see but they are as 
good as any boats. I. have never found any boat that 
hasn't a detestable habit of bobbing round. The Chan- 
nel is hated : and no one who has much to do with it is 
surprised at the projects for bridging it and for boring a 
hole under it; though I have scarcely ever met an 
Englishman who wants either done, — he does not desire 
any more facile communication with the French than 
now exists. The traditional hatred may not be so strong 
as it was, but it is hard to say on which side is the most 
ignorance and contempt of the other. 

It must be the Channel : that is enough to produce a 
physical disagreement even between the two coasts ; and 
there cannot be a greater contrast in the cultivated 
world than between the two lands lying so close to each 
other; and the contrast of their capitals is even more 

3 



4 SURFACE CONTRASTS 

decided, — I was about to say rival capitals, but they have 
not enough in common to make them rivals. I have 
lately been over to London for a week, going by the 
Dieppe and New-Haven route at night, and returning by 
another ; and the contrasts I speak of were impressed 
upon me anew. Every thing here in and about Paris was 
in the green and bloom of spring, and seemed to me very 
lovely ; but my first glance at an English landscape 
made it all seem pale and flat. We went up from New 
Haven to London in the morning, and feasted our eyes 
all the way. The French foliage is thin, spindling, 
sparse ; the grass is thin and light in color — in contrast. 
The English trees are massive, solid in substance and 
color ; the grass is thick, and green as emerald ; the turf 
is.like the heaviest Wilton carpet. The whole effect is 
that of vegetable luxuriance and solidity, as it were a 
tropical luxuriance, condensed and hardened by northern 
influences. If my eyes remember well, the French land- 
scapes are more like our own, in spring tone, at least ; but 
the English are a revelation to us strangers of what green 
really is, and what grass and trees can be. I had been 
told that we did well to see England before going to the 
Continent, for it would seem small and only pretty after- 
wards. Well, leaving out Switzerland, I have seen noth- 
ing in that beauty which satisfies the eye and wins the 
heart to compare with England in spring. When we 
annex it to our sprawling country, which lies out-doors 
in so many climates, it will make a charming little 
retreat for us in May and June, — a sort of garden of 
delight, whence we shall draw our May butter and our 
June roses. It will only be necessary to put it under 
glass to make it pleasant the year round. 

When we passed within the hanging smoke of London 
town, threading our way amid numberless railway tracks, 
sometimes over a road and sometimes under one, now 
burrowing into the ground, and now running along 
among the chimney-pots, — when we came into the pale 
light and the thickening industry of a London day, we 



OF PARIS AND LONDON. 5 

could but at once contrast Paris. Unpleasant weatlier 
usually reduces places to an equality of disagreeableness. 
But Paris, with its wide streets, light, handsome houses, 
gay windows, and smiling little parks and fountains, 
keeps up a tolerably pleasant aspect, let the weather do 
its worst. But London, with its low, dark, smutty brick 
houses and insignificant streets, settles down hopelessly 
into the dumps when the weather is bad. Even with 
the sun doing its best on the eternal cloud of smoke, it is 
dingy and gloomy enough, and so dirty, after spic-span, 
shining Paris. And there is a contrast in the matter 
of order and system ; the lack of both in London is ap- 
parent. You detect it in public places, in crowds, in the 
streets. The " social evil " is bad enough in its demon- 
strations in Paris : it is twice as offensive in London. I 
have never seen a drunken woman in Paris : I saw many 
of them in the daytime in London. I saw men and 
women fight in the streets, — a man kick and pound a wo- 
man ; and nobody interfered. There is a brutal streak in 
the Anglo-Saxon, I fear, — a downright animal coarseness, 
that does not exhibit itself the other side of the Channel. 
It is a proverb, that the London policemen are never at 
hand. The stout fellows with their clubs look as if they 
might do service ; but what a contrast they are to the 
Paris ser gents de ville ! The latter, with his dress -coat, 
cocked hat, long rapier, white gloves, neat, polite, atten- 
tive, alert, — always with the manner of a Jesuit turned 
soldier, — you learn to very much trust, if not respect ; 
and you feel perfectly secure that he will protect you, and 
give you your rights in any corner of Paris. It does look 
as if he might slip that slender rapier through your body 
in a second, and pull it out and wipe it, and not move a 
muscle ; but I don't think he would do it unless he were 
directly ordered to. He would not be likely to knock 
you down and drag you out, in mistake for the rowdy 
who was assaulting you. 

A great contrast between the habits of the people of 
London and Paris is shown by their eating and drinking. 



6 SURFACE CONTRASTS 

Paris is brilliant witli cafes : all the world frequents them 
to sip coiFee (and too often absinthe), read the papers, 
and gossip over the news ; take them away, as all travel- 
lers know, and Paris would not know itself. There is not 
a cafe in London : instead of cafes, there are gin-mills ; 
instead of light wine, there is heavy beer. The restau- 
rants and restaurant life are as different as can be. You 
can get any thing you wish in Paris : you can live very 
cheaply or very dearly, as you like. The range is more 
limited in London. I do not fancy the usual run of Paris 
restaurants. You get a great deal for your money, in 
variety and quantity ; but you don't exactly know what 
it is : and in time you tire of odds and ends, which destroy 
your hunger without exactly satisfying you. For myself, 
after a pretty good run of French cookery (and it beats 
the world for making the most out of little), when I sat 
down again to what the eminently-respectable waiter in 
white and black calls " a dinner off the joint, sir," with 
what belongs to it, and ended up with an attack on a 
section of a cheese as big as a bass-drum, not to forget a 
pewter mug of amber liquid, I felt as if I had touched 
bottom again, — got something substantial, had what 
you call a square meal. The English give you the sub- 
stantials, and better, I believe, than any other people. 
Thackeray used to come over to Paris to get a good din- 
ner now and then. I have tried his favorite restaurant 
here, the cuisine of which is famous far beyond the banks 
of the Seine ; but I think if he, hearty trencher-man that 
he was, had lived in Paris, he would have gone to Lon- 
don for a dinner oftener than he came here. 

And as for a lunch, — this eating is a fascinating theme, 
— commend me to a quiet inn of England. We happened 
to be out at Kew Gardens the other afternoon. You 
ought to go to Kew, even if the Duchess of Cambridge is 
not at home. There is not such a park out of England, 
considering how beautiful the Thames is there. What 
splendid trees it has ! the horse-chestnut, now a mass of 
pink-and- white blossoms, from its broad base, which rests 



OF PARIS AND LONDON. 7 

on the ground, to its high rounded dome ; the hawthorns, 
white and red, in full flower ; the sweeps and glades of 
living green, — turf on which you walk with a grateful 
sense of drawing life directly from the yielding, bountiful 
earth, — a green set out and heightened by flowers in 
masses of color (a great variety of rhododendrons, for 
one thing), to say nothing of magnificent greenhouses 
and outlying flower-gardens. Just beyond are Richmond 
Hill and Hampton Court, and five or six centuries of tra- 
dition and history and romance. Before you enter the 
garden, you pass the green. On one side of it are cottages, 
and on the other the old village church and its quiet 
churchyard. Some boys were playing cricket on the 
sward, and children were getting as intimate with the 
turf and the sweet earth as their nurses would let them. 
We turned into a little cottage, which gave notice of hos- 
pitality for a consideration ; and were shown, by a pretty 
maid in calico, into an upper room, — a neat, cheerful, com- 
mon room, with bright flowers in the open windows, and 
white muslin curtains for contrast. We looked out on 
the green and over to the beautiful churchyard, where 
one of England's greatest painters, Gainsborough, lies in 
rural repose. It is nothing to you, who always dine off 
the best at home, and never encounter dirty restaurants 
and snuffy inns, or run the gauntlet of Continental hotels, 
every meal being an experiment of great interest, if not 
of danger, to say that this brisk little waitress spread a 
snowy cloth, and set thereon meat and bread and but- 
ter and a salad: that conveys no idea to your mind. 
Because you cannot see that the loaf of wheaten bread 
was white and delicate, and full of the goodness of the 
grain ; or that the butter, yellow as a guinea, tasted of 
grass and cows, and all the rich juices of the verdant 
year, and was not mere flavorless grease ; or that the cuts 
of roast beef, fat and lean, had qualities that indicate to 
me some moral elevation in the cattle, — high-toned, rich 
meat ; or that the salad was crisp and delicious, and rather 
seemed to enjoy being eaten, at least, didn't disconsolately 



8 



PARIS AND LONDON. 



wilt down at the prospect, as most salad does. I do not 
wonder that Walter Scott dwells so much on eating, or 
lets his heroes pull at the pewter mugs so often. Per- 
haps one might find a better lunch in Paris, but he surely 
couldn't find this one. 



I 



PARIS IN MAY. — FRENCH GIRLS. — THE 
EMPEROR AT LONGCHAMPS. 



IT was tlie first of May when we came up from Italy. 
The spring grew on us as we advanced north : 
veo;etation seemed further alono; than it was south of the 
Alps. Paris was bathed in sunshine, wrapped in deli- 
cious weather, adorned with all the delicate colors of 
blushing spring. Now the horse-chestnuts are all in 
bloom, and so is the hawthorn ; and in parks and gar- 
dens there are rows and alleys of trees, with blossoms 
of pink and of white ; patches of flowers set in the light 
green grass ; solid masses of gorgeous color, which fill all 
the air with perfume ; fountains that dance in the sun- 
light as if just released from prison; and every where the 
soft sufiusion of May. Young maidens who make their 
first communion go into the churches in processions of 
hundreds, all in white, from the flowing veil to the satin 
slipper ; and I see them everywhere for a week after the 
ceremony, in their robes of innocence, often with bouquets 
of flowers, and attended by their friends ; all concerned 
making it a joyful holiday, as it ought to be. I hear, of 
course, with what false ideas of life these girls are edu- 
cated ; how they are watched before marriage ; how the 
marriage is only one of arrangement, and Avhat liberty 
they eagerly seek afterwards. I met a charming Paris 
lady last winter in Italy, recently married, v/ho said she 
had never been in the Louvre in her life ; never had seen 
any of the magnificent pictures or Avorld-famous statuary 
there, because girls were not allowed to go there, lest 

9 



10 PARIS IN MA V, 

they should see something that they ought not to see. I 
suppose they look with wonder at the young American 
girls who march up to any thing that ever was created 
with undismayed front. 

Another Frenchwoman, a lady of talent and the best 
breeding, recently said to a friend, in entire unconscious- 
ness that she was saying any thing remarkable, that, when 
she was seventeen, her great desire was to marry one 
of her uncles (a thing not very unusual with the papal 
dispensation), in order to keep all the money in the 
family ! That was the ambition of a girl of seventeen. 

I like, on these sunny days, to look into the Luxem- 
bourg Garden : nowhere else is the eye more delighted 
with life and color. In the afternoon, especially, it is a 
baby-show worth going far to see. The avenues are full 
of children, whose animated play, Hght laughter, and 
happy chatter, and pretty, picturesque dress, make a sort 
of fairy grove of the garden; and all the nurses of that 
quarter bring their charges there, and sit in the shade, 
sewing, gossiping, and comparing the merits of the little 
dears. One baby differs from another in glory, I sup- 
pose ; but I think on such days that they are all lovely, 
taken in the mass, and all in sweet harmony with the 
delicious atmosphere, the tender green, and the other 
flowers of spring. A baby can't do better than to spend 
its spring days in the Luxembourg Garden. 

There are several ways of seeing Paris besides roam- 
ing up and down before the blazing shop-windows, and 
lounging by daylight or gaslight along the crowded and 
gay boulevards ; and one of the best is to go to the Bois 
de Boulogne on a fete-day, or when the races are in prog- 
ress. This famous wood is very disappointing at first to 
one who has seen the English parks, or who remembers 
the noble trees and glades and avenues of that at Munich. 
To be sure, there is a lovely little lake and a pretty arti- 
ficial cascade, and the roads and walks are good ; but the 
trees are all saplings, and nearly all the " wood " is a 
thicket of small stuff. Yet there is green grass that one 



PARIS IN MAY. II 

can roll on, and there is a grove of small pines that one 
can sit under. It is a pleasant place to drive toward 
evening; but its great attraction is the crowd there. All 
the principal avenues are lined with chairs, and there 
people sit to watch the streams of carriages. 

I went out to the Bois the other day, when there were 
races going on ; not that I went to the races, for I know 
nothing about them, "per se, and care less. All running 
races are pretty much alike. You see a lean horse, neck 
and tail, flash by you, with a jockey in colors on his back; 
and that is the whole of it. Unless you have some money 
on it, in the pool or otherwise, it is impossible to raise 
any excitement. The day I went out, the Champs 
Elysees, on both sides, its whole length, was crowded 
with people, rows and ranks of them sitting in chairs and 
on benches. The Avenue de I'lmperatrice, from the Arc 
de I'Etoile to the entrance of the Bois, was full of prome- 
naders ; and the main avenues of the Bois, from the chief 
entrance to the race-course, were lined with people, who 
stood or sat, simply to see the passing show. There 
could not have been less than ten miles of spectators, in 
double or triple rows, who had taken places that after- 
noon to watch the turnouts of fashion and rank. These 
great avenues were at all times, from three till seven, 
filled with vehicles ; and at certain points, and late in the 
day, there was, or would have been anywhere else except 
in Paris, a jam. I saw a great many splendid horses, 
but not so many fine liveries as one will see on a swell- 
day in London. There was one that I liked. A hand- 
some carriage, with one seat, was drawn by four large 
and elegantblack horses, the two near horses ridden by 
postilions in blue and silver, — blue roundabouts, white 
breeches and top-boots, a round-topped silver cap, and the 
hair, or wig, powdered, and showing just a little behind. 
A footman mounted behind, seated, wore the same colors ; 
and the whole establishment was exceedingly tonnish. 

The race-track (Longchamps, as it is called), broad 
and beautiful springy turf, is not different from some 



12 PARIS IN MA V. 

others, except that the enclosed oblong space is not flat, 
but undulating just enough for beauty, and so framed in 
by graceful woods, and looked on by chateaux and upland 
forests, that I thought I had never seen a sweeter bit 
of greensward. St. Cloud overlooks it, and villas also 
regard it from other heights. The day I saw it, the horse- 
chestnuts were in bloom ; and there was, on the edges, a 
cloud of pink-and-white blossoms, that gave a soft and 
charming appearance to the entire landscape. The crowd 
in the grounds, in front of the stands for judges, royalty, 
and people who are privileged or will pay for places, was, 
I suppose, much as usual, — =■ aii excited throng of young 
and jockey-looking men, with a few women-gamblers in 
their midst, making up the pool ; a pack of carriages 
along the circuit of the track, with all sorts of people, 
except the very good; and conspicuous the elegantly- 
habited daughters of sin and satin, with servants in 
livery, as if they had been born to it ; gentlemen and 
ladies strolling about, or reclining on the sward, and a 
refreshment-stand in lively operation. 

When the bell rang, we all cleared out from the track, 
and I happened to get a position by the railing. I was 
looking over to the Pavilion, where I supposed the Em- 
peror to be, when the man next to me cried, " Voila ! " 
and, looking up, two horses brushed right by my face, of 
which I saw about two tails and one neck, and they were 
gone. Pretty soon they came round again, and one was 
ahead, as is apt to be the case ; and somebody cried, 
" Bully for Therese ! " or French to that effect, and it 
was all over. Then we rushed across to the emperor's 
Pavilion, except that I walked with all the dignity con- 
sistent with rapidity, and there, in the midst of his suite, 
sat the Man of December, a stout, broad, and heavy- 
faced man as you know, but a man who impresses one 
with a sense of force and purpose, — sat, as I say, and 
looked at us through his narrow, half-shut eyes, till he 
was satisfied that I had got his features through my glass, 
when he deliberately arose and went in. 



PARIS IN MA Y, 13 

All Paris was out that day, — it is always out, by the 
way, when the sun shines, and in whatever part of the 
city you happen to be ; and it seemed to me there was a 
special throng clear down to the gate of the Tuileries, to 
see the emperor and the rest of us come home. He went 
round by the Rue Rivoli, but I walked through the gar- 
dens. The soldiers from Africa sat by the gilded portals, 
. as usual, — aliens, and yet always with the port of con- 
querors here in Paris. Their nonchalant indifference 
and soldierly bearing always remind me of the sort of 
force the Emperor has at hand to secure his throne. I 
think the blouses must look askance at these satraps of 
the desert. The single jet fountain in the basin was 
springing its highest, — a quivering pillar of water to 
match the stone shaft of Egypt which stands close by. 
The sun illuminated it, and threw a rainbow from it a 
hundred feet long, upon the white and green dome of 
chestnut-trees near. When I was farther down the 
avenue, I had the dancing column of water, the obelisk, 
and the Arch of Triumph all in line, and the rosy sunset 
beyond. 

2 



AN IMPERIAL REVIEW. 

THE Prince and Princess of Wales came iip to 
Paris in the beginning of May, from Italy, Egypt, 
and alongshore, staid at a hotel on the Place Ven- 
dome, where they can get beef that is not horse, and 
is rare, and beer brewed in the royal dominions, and 
have been entertained with cordiality by the Emperor. 
Among the spectacles which he has shown them, is one 
calculated to give them an idea of his peaceful inten- 
tions, — a grand review of cavalry and artillery at the 
Bois de Boulogne. It always seems to me a curious com- 
ment upon the state of our modern civilization, that, when 
one prince visits another here in Europe, the first thing 
that the visited does, by way of hospitality, is to get out 
his troops, and show his rival how easily he could 
" lick " him, if it came to that. It is a little puerile. At 
any rate, it is an advance upon the old fashion of getting 
up a joust at arms, and inviting the guest to come out 
and have his head cracked in a friendly way. 

The review, which had been a good deal talked about, 
came off in the afternoon ; and all the world went to it. 
The avenues of the Bois were crowded with carriages, 
and the walks with footpads. Such a constellation of 
royal personages met on one field must be seen ; lor, 
besides the imperial family and Albert Edward and his 
Danish beauty, there was to be the Archduke of Aus- 
tria, and no end of titled personages besides. At three 
o'clock the royal company, in the Emperor's carriages, 
drove upon the training-ground of the Bois, where the 
14 



AN IMPERIA L RE VIE W. 1 5 

troops awaited them. All the party, except the Princess 
of Wales, then mounted horses, and rode along the lines, 
and afterwards retired to a wood-covered knoll at one 
end to witness the evolutions. The training-ground is a 
noble, slightly-undulating piece of greensward, perhaps 
three-quarters of a mile long and half that in breadth, 
hedged about with graceful trees, and bounded on one 
side by the Seine. Its borders were rimmed that day 
with thousands of people on foot and in carriages, — a 
gay sight, in itself, of color and fashion. A more brilliant 
spectacle than the field presented cannot well be ima- 
gined. Attention was divided between the gentle emi- 
nence where the imperial party stood, -■ — a throng of noble 
persons backed by the gay and glittering Guard of the 
Emperor, as brave a show as chivalry ever made, — 
and the field of green, with its lono- lines in martial 
array ; every variety of splendid uniforms, the colors and 
combinations that most dazzle and attract, with shining 
brass and gleaming steel, and magnificent horses of war, 
regiments of black, gray, and bay. 

The evolutions were such as to stir the blood of the 
most sluo-o-ish. A regiment, full front, would charge 
down upon a dead run from the far field, men shouting, 
sabres flashing, horses thundering along, so that the 
ground shook, towards the imperial party, and, when 
near, stop suddenly, wheel to right and left, and gallop 
back. Others would succeed them.rapidly, coming up the 
centre while their predecessors filed down the sides ; so 
that the whole field was a moving mass of splendid color 
and glancing steel. Now and then a rider was unhorsed 
in the furious rush, and went scrambling out of harm, 
while the steed galloped off with free rein. This display 
was followed by that of the flying artillery, battalion after 
battalion, which came clatterino; and roaring along, in 
double lines stretching half across the field, stopped and 
rapidly discharged its pieces, waking up all the region 
with echoes, filling the plain with the smoke of gunpow- 
der, and starting into rearing activity all the carriage- 



i6 AN IMPERIAL REVIEW. 



^i 



horsBs in the Bois. How long this continued I do not 
know, nor how many men participated in the review ; 
but they seemed to pour up from the far end in unend- 
inoj columns. I think the reoiments must have charsred 
over and over again. It gave some people the impression 
that there were a hundred thousand troops on the 
ground. I set it at fifteen to twenty thousand. Gallig- 
nani next morning said there were only six thousand ! 
After the charging was over, the reviewing party rode 
to the centre of the field, and the troops galloped round 
them ; and the Emperor distributed decorations. We 
could recognize the Emperor and Empress ; Prince 
Albert in huzzar uniform, with a green plume in his cap ; 
and the Prince Imperial, in cap and the uniform of a 
lieutenant, — on horseback in front ; while the Princess 
occupied a carriage behind them. 

There was a crush of people at the entrance to see 
the royals make their exit. Gendarmes were busy, and 
mounted guards went smashing through the crowd to 
clear a space. Everybody was on the tiptoe of expec- 
tation. There is a portion of the Emperor's guard ; 
there is an officer of the household ; there is an embla- 
zoned carriage ; and, quick, there ! with a rush they 
come, driving as if there was no crowd, with imperial 
haste, postilions and outriders and the imperial carriage. 
There is a sensation, a cordial and not loud greeting, 
but no Yankee-like cheers. That heavy gentleman in 
citizen's dress, who looks neither to right nor left, is Na- 
poleon III. ; that handsome woman, grown full in the 
face of late, but yet with the bloom of beauty and the 
sweet grace of command, in hat and dark riding-habit, 
bowing constantly to right and left, and smiling, is the 
Empress Eugenie. And they are gone. As we look for 
something more, there is a rout in the side avenue ; some- 
thing is coming, unexpected, from another quarter: dra- 
goons dash through the dense mass, shouting and ges- 
ticulating, and a dozen horses go by, turning the corner 
Uke a small whirlwind, urged on by whip and spur, a 



AN IMPERIAL KE VIE W. 1 7 

handsome boy riding in the midst, — a boy in cap and 
simple uniJbrm, riding gracefully and easily and jauntily, 
and out of sight in a minute. It is the boy Prince Im- 
perial and his guard. It was like him to dash in unex- 
pectedly, as he has broken into the line of European 
princes. He rides gallantly, and Fortune smiles on him 
to-day ; but he rides into a troubled future. There was 
one more show, — a carriage of the Emperor, with offi- 
cers, in English colors and side-whiskers, riding in ad- 
vance and behind : in it the future Kins; of Eng-land, 
the heavy, selfish-faced young man, and beside him his 
princess, popular wherever she shows her winning face, 
— a fair, sweet woman, in light and flowing silken stuffs 
of spring, a vision of lovely youth and rank, also gone in 
a minute. 

These English visitors are enjoying the pleasures of 
the French capital. On Sunday, as I passed the Hotel 
Bristol, a crowd, principally English, was waiting in 
front of it to see the Prince and Princess come out, and 
enter one of the Emperor's carriages in waiting. I heard 
an Englishwoman, who was looking on with admiration 
" sticking out " all over, remark to a friend in a very 
loud whisper,, " I tell you, the Prince lives every day of 
his life." It struck me as a very meaty expression, from 
her point of view. The princely pair came out at length, 
and drove away, going to visit Versailles. I don't know 
what the Queen would think of this way of spending 
Sunday ; but, if Albert Edward never does any thing 
worse, he don't need half the praying for that he gets 
every Sunday in all the English churches and chapels. 

2* 



THE LOW COUNTRIES AND 
RHINELAND. 



AMIENS AND QUAINT OLD BRUGES. 



THEY have not yet found out tlie secret in France 
of banishing dust from railway-carriages. Paris, 
late in June, was hot, but not dusty : the country was 
both. There is an uninteresting glare and hardness in 
a French landscape on a sunny day. The soil is thin, 
the trees are slender, and one sees not much luxury or 
comfort. Still, one does not usually see much of either 
on a flying train. We spent a night at Amiens, and 
had several hours for the old cathedral, the sunset light 
on its noble front and towers and spire and flying but- 
tresses, and the morning rays bathing its rich stone. As 
one stands near it in front, it seems to tower away into 
-heaven, a mass of carving and sculpture, — figures of 
saints and martyrs who have stood in the sun and storm 
for ages, as they stood in their lifetime, with a patient 
waiting. It was like a great company, a Christian host, 
in attitudes of praise and worship. There they were, 
ranks on ranks, silent in stone, when the last of the 
Ions; twilight illumined them : and there in the same 
impressive patience they waited the golden day. It 
required little fancy to feel that they had lived, and now 
in long procession came down the ages. The central 
portal is lofty, wide, arid crowded with figures. The side 
is only less rich than the front. Here the old Gothic build- 
ers let their fancy riot in grotesque gargoyles, — figures 
of animals, and imps of sin,- which stretch out their long 
necks for water-spouts above. From the ground to the 
top of the unfinished towers is one mass of rich stone 

21 



22 AMIENS AND QUAINT OLD BRUGES. 

work, the creation of genius that hundreds of years ago 
knew no other way to write its poems than with the 
chisel. The interior is very magnificent also, and has 
some splendid stained glass. At eight o'clock, the 
priests were chanting vespers to a larger congregation 
than many churches have on Sunday : their voices 
were rich and musical, and, joined with the organ notes, 
floated sweetly and impressively through the dim and 
vast interior. We sat near the great portal, and, look- 
ing down the long, arched nave and choir to the cluster 
of candles burning on the high altar, before which the 
priests chanted, one could not but remember how many 
centuries the same act of worship had been almost un- 
interrupted within, while the apostles and martyrs stood 
without, keeping watch of the unchanging heavens. 

When I stepped in, early in the morning, the first 
mass was in progress. The church was nearly empty. 
Looking within the choir, I saw two stout young priests 
lustily singing the prayers in deep, rich voices. .One 
of them leaned back in his seat, and sang away, as if he 
had taken a contract to do it, using, from time to time, 
an enormous red handkerchief, with which and his nose 
he produced a trumpet obligato. As I stood there, a 
poor dwarf hobbled in and knelt on the bare stones, and 
was the only worshipper, until, at length, a half-dozen 
priests swept in from the sacristy, and two processions 
of young school-girls entered from either side. They 
have the skull of John the Baptist in this cathedral. I 
did not see it, although I suppose I could have done so 
for a franc to the beadle : but I saw a very good stone 
imitation of it ; and his image and story fill the church. 
It is something to have seen the place that contains his 
skull. 

The country becomes more interesting as one gets 
into Belgium. Windmills are frequent: in and near 
Lille are some six hundred of them ; and they are a 
great help to a landscape that wants fine trees. At 
Courtrai, we looked into Notre Dame, a thirteenth-cen- 



AMIENS AND QUAINT OLD BRUGES. 23 

tury cathedral, which has a Vandyke (" The Raising of 
the Cross "), and the chapel of the Counts of Flanders, 
where workmen were uncovering some frescos that were 
whitewashed over in the war-times. The town hall has 
two fine old chimney-pieces carved in wood, with quaint 
figures, — work that one must go to the Netherlands 
to see. Toward evening we came into the ancient town 
of Bruges. The country all day has been mostly flat, 
but thoroughly cultivated. Windmills appear to do all 
the labor of the people, — raising the water, grinding the 
grain, sawing the lumber ; and they everywhere lift their 
long arms up to the sky. Things look more and more 
what we call " foreign." Harvest is going on, of hay and 
grain ; and men and women work together in the fields. 
The gentle sex has its rights here. We saw several 
women acting as switch-tenders. Perhaps the use of the 
switch comes natural to them. Justice, however, is still 
in the hands of the men. We saw a Dutch court in 
session in a little room in the town hall at Courtrai. 
The justice wore a little red cap, and sat informally be- 
hind a cheap table. I noticed that the witnesses were 
treated with unusual consideration, being allowed to sit 
down at the table opposite the little justice, who inter- 
rogated them in a loud voice. At the stations to-day 
we see more friars in coarse, woollen dresses, and sandals, 
and the peasants with wooden sabots. 

"As the sun goes to the horizon, we have an effect 
sometimes produced by the best Dutch artists, — a won- 
derful transparent light, in which the landscape looks 
like a_ picture, with its church-spires of stone, its wind- 
mills, its slender trees, and red-roofed houses. It is a good 
light and a good hour in which to enter Bruges, that 
city of the past. Once the city was greater than Ant- 
werp ; and up the Rege came the commerce of the East, — 
merchants from the Levant, traders in jewels and silks. 
Now the tall houses wait for tenants, and the streets 
have a deserted air. After nightfall, as we walked in 
the middle of the roughly-paved streets, meeting few 



24 AMIENS AND QUAINT OLD BRUGES, 

people, and hearing only the echoing clatter of the 
wooden sabots of the few who were abroad, the old 
spirit of the place came over us. We sat on a bench 
in the market-place, a treeless square, hemmed in 
by quaint, gabled houses, late in the evening, to listen to 
the chimes from the belfry. The tower is less than four 
hundred feet high, and not so high by some seventy feet 
as the one on Notre Dame near by ; but it is very pic- 
turesque, in spite of the fact that it springs out of a 
rummagy-looking edifice, one-half of which is devoted 
to soldiers' barracks, and the other to markets. The 
chimes are called the finest in Europe. It is well to 
hear the finest at once, and so have done with the tedious 
things. The Belgians are as fond of chimes as the Dutch 
are of stagnant water. We heard them everywhere in 
Belgium ; and in some towns they are incessant, jangling 
every seven and a half minutes. The chimes at Bruges 
ring every quarter-hour for a minute, and at the full 
hour attempt a tune. The revolving machinery grinds 
out the tune, which is changed at least once a year ; 
and on Sundays a musician, chosen by the town, plays 
the chimes. In so many bells (there are forty-eight), 
the least of which weighs twelve pounds, and the largest 
over eleven thousand, there must be soft notes and son- 
orous tones; so sweet jangled sounds were showered 
down : but we liked better than the confused chiming 
the solemn notes of the great bell striking the hour. 
There is something very poetical about this chime of 
bells high in the air, flinging down upon the hum and 
traflSc of the city its oft-repeated benediction of peace ; 
but anybody but a Lowlander would get very weary 
of it. These chimes, to be sure, are better than those 
in London, which became a nuisance ; but there is in all 
of them a tinkling attempt at a tune, which always fails, 
that is very annoying. 

Bruges has altoo-ether an odd flavor. Piles of wooden 
sabots are for sale in front of the shops ; and this ugly 
shoe, which is mysteriously kept on the foot, is worn by , 



AMIENS AND QUAINT OLD BRUGES. 25 

all the common sort. We see long, slender carts in the 
street, with one horse hitched far ahead with rope traces, 
and no thills or pole. The women — nearly every one we 
saw — wear long cloaks of black cloth with a silk hood 
thrown back. Bruges is famous of old for its beautiful 
women, who are enticingly described as always walking 
the streets with covered faces, and peeping out from 
their mantles. They are not so handsome now they 
show their faces, I can testify. Indeed, if there is in 
Bruges another besides the beautiful girl who showed 
us the old council-chamber in the Palace of Justice, she 
must have had her hood pulled over her face. 

Next morning was market-day. The square was 
lively with carts, donkeys, and country people, and that 
and all the streets leading; to it were filled with the 
women m black cloaks, who flitted about as numerous 
as the rooks at Oxford, and very much like them, mov- 
ing in a winged way, their cloaks outspread as they 
walked, and distended with the market-basket under- 
neath. Though the streets were full, the town did not 
seem any less deserted ; and the early marketers had 
only come to life for a day, revisiting the places that once 
they thronged. In the shade of the tall houses in the 
narrow streets, sat red-cheeked girls and women making 
lace, the bobbins jumping under their nimble fingers. 
At the church-doors hideous beggars crouched and 
whined, — specimens of the fifteen thousand paupers of 
Bruges. In the fish-market we saw odd old women, with 
Rembrandt colors in faces and costume ; and, while we 
strayed about in the strange city, all the time from 
the lofty tower the chimes fell down. What history 
crowds upon us ! Here in the old cathedral, with its 
monstrous tower of brick, a portion of it as old as the 
tenth century, Philip the Good established, in li29, the 
Order of the Golden Fleece, the last chapter of which 
was held by Philip the Bad in 1559, in the rich old 
Cathedral of St. Bavon, at Ghent. Here, on the square, 
is the site of the house where the Emperor Maximilian 
3 



26 AMIENS AND QUAINT OLD BRUGES. 

was imprisoned by his rebellious Flemings ; and next it, 
with a carved lion, that in which Charles II. of England 
lived after the martyrdom of that patient and virtuous 
ruler, whom the English Prayer-book calls that " blessed 
martyr, Charles the First." In Notre Dame are the 
tombs of Charles the Bold and Mary his daughter. 

We begin here to enter the portals of Dutch painting. 
Here died Jan van Eyck, the father of oil painting ; and 
here, in the hospital of St. John, are the most celebrated 
pictures of Hans Memling. The most exquisite in color 
and finish is the series painted on the casket made to 
contain the arm of St. Ursula, and representing the 
story of her martyrdom. You know she went on a pil- 
grimage to Rome, with her lover, Conan, and eleven 
thousand virgins ; and, on their return to Cologne, they 
were all massacred by the Huns. One would scarcely 
believe the story, if he did not see all their bones at 
Cologne. 



GHENT AND ANTWERP. 

"TTTHAT can one do in this Belgium but write down 
VV names, and let memory recall tlie past? We 
came to Ghent, still a handsome city, though one thinks 
of the days when it was the capital of Flanders, and its 
merchants were princes. On the shabby old belfry- 
tower is the gilt dragon which Philip van Artevelde 
captured, and brought in triumph from Bruges. It was 
originally fetched from a Greek church in Constantino- 
ple by some Bruges Crusader ; and it is a link to recall 
to us how, at that time, the merchants of Venice and the 
far East traded up the Schelde, and brought to its 
wharves the rich stuflf's of India and Persia. The old 
bell Roland, that was used to call the burghers together 
on the approach of an enemy, hung in this tower. What 
fierce broils and bloody fights did these streets witness 
centuries ago ! There in the Marche au Vendredi, a 
large square of old-fashioned houses, with a statue of 
Jacques van Artevelde, fifteen hundred corpses were 
strewn in a quarrel between the hostile guilds of fullers 
and brewers ; and here, later, Alva set blazing the fires 
of the Inquisition. Near the square is the old cannon. 
Mad Margery, used in 1382 at the siege of Oudenarde, — 
a hammered-iron hooped affair, eighteen feet long. But 
why mention this, or the magnificent town hall, or St. 
Bavon, rich in pictures and statuary ; or try to put you 
back three hundred years to the wild days when the 
iconoclasts sacked this and every other church in the 
Low Countries ? 

27 



28 GHENT AND ANTWERP. 

Up to Antwerp toward evening. All the country flat 
as the flattest part of Jersey, rich in grass and grain, cut 
up by canals, picturesque with windmills and red-tiled 
roofs, framed with trees in rows. It has been all day hot 
and dusty. The country everywhere seems to need rain ; 
and dark clouds are cratherino; in the south for a storm, as 
we drive up the broad Place de Meir to our hotel, and 
take rooms that look out to the lace-like spire of the cathe- 
dra], which is sharply defined against the red western sky. 

Antwerp takes hold of you, both by its present and its 
past, very strongly. It is still the home of wealth. It 
has stately buildings, splendid galleries of pictures, and 
a spire of stone which charms more than a picture, and 
fascinates the eye as music does the ear. It still keeps 
its strong fortifications drawn around it, to which the 
broad and deep Scheldt is like a string to a bow, mind- 
ful of the unstable state of Europe. While Berlin is 
only a vast camp of soldiers, every less city must daily 
beat its drums, and call its muster-roll. From the tower 
here one looks upon the cockpit of Europe. And yet 
Antwerp ought to have rest : she has had tumult enough 
in her time. Prosperity seems returning to her ; but her 
old, comparative splendor can never come back. In the 
sixteenth century there was no richer city in Europe. 

We walked one evening past the cathedral spire, 
which begins in the richest and most solid Gothic work, 
and grows up into the sky into an exquisite lightness and 
grace, down a broad street to the Scheldt. What traffic 
have not these high old houses looked on, when two 
thousand and five hundred vessels lay in the river at one 
time, and the commerce of Europe found here its best 
mart. Along the stream now is a not very clean prome- 
nade for the populace; and it is linedrwith beer-houses, 
shabby theatres, and places of the most childish amuse- 
ments. There is an odd liking for the simple among 
these people. In front of the booths, drums were beaten 
and instruments played in bewildering discord. Actors 
in paint and tights stood- without to attract the crowd 



GHENT AND ANTWERP. 29 

■witliiii. On one low balcony, a copper-colored man, 
with a huge feather cap and the traditional dress of the 
American savage, was beating two drums ; a burnt-cork 
black man stood beside him ; while on the steps was a 
woman, in hat and shawl, making an earnest speech to 
the crowd. In another place, where a crazy band made 
furious music, was an enormous " go-round " of wooden 
ponies, like those in the Paris gardens, only here, in- 
stead of children, grown men and women rode the hobby- 
horses, and seemed delighted with the sport. In the gen- 
eral Babel, everybody was good-natured and jolly. Little 
things suffice to amuse the lower classes, who do not have 
to bother their heads with elections and mass meetings. 
In front of the cathedral is the well, and the fine can- 
opy of iron work, by Quentin Matsys, the blacksmith of 
Antwerp, some of whose pictures we saw in the Museum, 
where one sees also some of the finest pictures of the 
Dutch school, — the " Crucifixion " of Rubens, the " Christ 
on the Cross " of Vandyke ; paintings also by Teniers, 
Otto Vennius, Albert Cuyp, and others, and Rembrandt's 
portrait of his wife, — a picture whose sweet strength and 
wealth of color draws one to it with almost a passion of 
admiration. We had ah-eady seen " The Descent from the 
Cross " and " The Raising of the Cross" by Rubens, in the 
cathedral. With all his power and rioting luxuriance 
of color, I cannot come to love him as I do Rembrandt. 
Doubtless he painted what he saw ; and we still find the 
types of his female figures in the broad-hipped, ruddy- 
colored women of Antwerp. We walked down to his 
house, which remains much as it was two hundred and 
twenty-five years ago. From the interior court, an 
entrance in the Italian style leads into a , pleasant little 
garden full of old trees and flowers, with a summer-house 
embellished with plaster casts, and having the very 
stone table upon which Rubens painted. It is a quiet 
place, and fit for an artist ; but Rubens had other houses 
in the city, and lived the life of a man who took a strong 
hold of the world. 
3* 



AMSTERDAM. 

THE rail from Antwerp north was through a land 
flat and sterile. After a little, it becomes a little 
richer ; but a forlorner land to live in I never saw. One 
wonders at the perseverance of the Flemings and Dutch- 
men to keep all this vast tract above water, when there 
is so much good solid earth elsewhere unoccupied. At 
Moerdjik we changed from the cars to a little steamer 
on the Maas, which flows between high banks. The wa- 
ter is higher than the adjoining land, and from the deck 
we look down upon houses and farms. At Dort, the 
Rhine comes in with little promise of the noble stream 
it is in the highlands. Everywhere canals and ditches 
dividing the small fields instead offences; trees planted 
in straight lines, and occasionally trained on a trellis in 
front of the houses, with the trunk painted white or 
green ; so that every likeness of nature shall be taken 
away. From Rotterdam, by cars, it is still the same. 
The Dutchman spends half his life, apparently, in fight- 
ing the water. He has to watch the huge dykes which 
keep the ocean from overwhelming him, and the river- 
banks, which may break, and let the floods of the Rhine 
swallow him up. The danger from within is not less 
than from without. Yet so fond is he of his one enemy, 
that, when he can afibrd it, he builds him a fantastic 
summer-house over a stagnant pool or a slimy canal, in 
one corner of his garden, and there sits to enjoy the 
aquatic beauties of nature ; that is, nature as he has 
made it. The river-banks are woven with osiers to keep 
30 



AMSTERDAM. 31 

them from washing ; and at intervals on the banks are 
piles of the long withes to be used in emergencies when 
the swollen streams threaten to break through. 

And so we come to Amsterdam, the oddest city of all, 
— a city wholly built on piles, with as many canals as 
streets, and an architecture so quaint as to even impress 
one who has come from Belgium. The whole town 
has a wharf-y look ; and it is difficult to say why the tall 
brick houses, their gables running by steps to a peak, 
and each one leaning forward or backward or sideways, 
and none perpendicular, and no two on a line, are so 
interesting. But certainly it is a most entertaining 
place to the stranger, whether he explores the crowded 
Jews' quarter, with its swarms of dirty people, its nar- 
row streets, and high houses hung with clothes, as if 
every day were washing-day ; or ^strolls through the 
equally narrow streets of rich shops ; or lounges upon 
the bridges, and looks at the queer boats with clumsy 
rounded bows, great helms, painted in gay colors, with 
flowers in the cabin- windows, — boats where families live ; 
or walks down the Plantage, with the zoological gardens 
on the one hand and rows of beer-gardens on the other ; 
or round the great docks ; or saunters at sunset by the 
banks of the Y, and looks upon flat North Holland 
and the Zuyder Zee. 

The palace on the Dam (square) is a square, stately 
edifice, and the only building that the stranger will care 
to see. Its interior is richer and more fit to live in than 
any palace we have seen. There is nothing usually so 
dreary as your fine palace. There are some good fres- 
cos, rooms richly decorated in marble, and a magnifi- 
cent hall, or ball-room, one hundred feet in height, with- 
out pillars. Back of it is, of course, a canal, which does 
not smell fragrantly in the summer ; and I do not won- 
der that William III. and his queen prefer to stop away. 
From the top is a splendid view of Amsterdam and all 
the flat region. I speak of it with entire impartiality, 
for I did not go up to see it. But better than palaces are 



32 AMSTERDAM, 

the picture-galleries, three of which are open to the 
sight-seer. Here the ancient and modern Dutch paint- 
ers are seen at their best, and I know of no richer feast 
of this sort. Here Rembrandt is to be seen in his glory ; 
here Yan der Heist, Jan Steen, Gerard Douw ; Teniers 
the younger, Hondekoeter, Weenix, Ostade, Cuyp, and 
other names as familiar. These men also painted what 
they saw, — the people, the landscapes, with which they 
were familiar. It was a strange pleasure to meet again 
and again in the streets of the town the faces, or types 
of them, that we had just seen on canvas so old. 

In the Low Countries, the porters have the grand title 
of commissionaires. They carry trunks and bundles, 
black boots, and act as valets de place. As guides, they 
are quite as intolerable in Amsterdam as their brethren 
in other cities. Many of them are Jews ; and they have 
a keen eye for a stranger. The moment he sallies from 
his hotel, there is a guide. Let him hesitate for an 
instant in his walk, either to look at something or to 
consult his map, or let him ask the way, and he will 
have a half-dozen of the persistent guild upon him ; and 
they cannot easily be shaken off. The afternoon we 
arrived, we had barely got into our rooms at Brack's 
Oude Doelan, when a gray-headed commissionaire 
knocked at our door, and offered his services to show us 
the city. We deferred the pleasure of his valuable so- 
ciety. Shortly, when we came down to the street, a 
smartly-dressed Israelite took off his hat to us, and 
offered to show us the city. We declined with impres- 
sive politeness, and walked on. The Jew accompanied 
us, and attempted conversation, in which we did not 
join. He would show us every thing for a guilder an 
hour, — for half a guilder. Having plainly told the Jew 
that we did not desire his attendance, he crossed to the 
other side of the street, and kept us in sight, biding his 
opportunity. At the end of the street, we hesitated a 
moment whether to cross the bridge or turn up by the 
broad canal. The Jew was at our side in a moment. 



AMSTERDAM. 33 



havino- divined that we were on tlie way to the Dam and 
the palace. He obligingly pointed the way, and began 
to walk with us, entering into conversation. We tola 
him pointedly, that we did not desire bis services, and 
requested him to leave us. He still walked in our direc- 
tion, with the air of one much injured, but forgiving, and 
was more than once beside us with a piece ot^ inlorma- 
tion. When we finally turned upon him with great 
fierceness, and told him to begone, he regarded us with a 
mournful and pitying expression; and as the last act ot 
one who returned good for evil, before he turned away, 
pointed out to us the next turn we were to make. 1 saw 
him several times afterward ; and I once had occasion to 
say to him, that I had abeady told him I would not em- 
ploy him ; and he always lifted his hat, and looked at me 
with a foro-iving smile. I felt that I had deeply wronged 
him. As we stood by the statue, looking up at the east- 
ern pediment of the palace, another of the tribe (they 
all speak a little English) asked me if I wished to see 
the palace. I told him I was looking at it, and could 
see it quite distinctly. Half a dozen more crowded 
round, and proffered their aid. Would I like to go into 
the palace^ They knew, and I knew, that they could do 
nothing more than go to the open door, through which 
they would not be admitted, and that I could walk across 
the open square to that, and enter alone. I asked the 
first speaker if he wished to go into the palace. Uh, 
yes ! he would like to go. I told him he had better go at 
once,— they had all better go in together and see the 
palace, - it was an excellent opportunity. They seemed 
to see the point, and slunk away to the other side to wait 
for another stranger. . , , 

I find that this plan works very well with guides . 
when I see one approaching, I at once ofier to gmd^ 
him. It is an idea from which he does not rally m time 
to annoy us. The other day I offered to show a persist- 
ent fellow through an old ruin for fifty k^euzers : as 
his price for showing me was forty-eight, we did not 



34 AMSTERDAM. 

come to terms. One of the most remarkable guides, by 
the way, we encountered at Stratford-on-Avon. As we 
walked down from the Red^-florse Inn to the church, a 
full-grown boy came beari^'^wn upon us in the most 
wonderful fashion. Early rickets, I think, had been suc- 
ceeded by the St. Vitus' d^ce. He came down upon 
us sideways, his legs all in a talf^le, and his right arm, 
bent and twisted, going rouH^ and round, as if in vain 
efforts to get into his poqlfet, his fingers spread out in 
impotent desire to clutch' something. There was great 
danger that he would run into us, as he was like a 
steamer with only one side-wheel and no rudder. He 
came up puffing and blowing, and offered to show us 
Shakespeare's tomb. Shade of the past, to be accompa- 
nied to thy resting-place by such an object ! But he 
fastened himself on us, and jerked and hitched along in 
his side-wheel fashion. We declined his help. He pad- 
dled on, twisting himself into knots, and grinning in the 
most friendly manner. We told, him to begone. " I 
am," said he, Avrenching himself^ inito a new contortion, 
" I am what showed Artemus Ward round Stratford." 
This information he repeated «gain and again, as if we 
could not resist him after we had jcomprehended that. 
We shook him off; but when we^e turned at sundown 
across the fields, from a visit to' Anne Hathaway's cot- 
tage, we met the side-wheeler cheerfully towing along a 
large party, upon whom he had fastened. 

The people of Amsterdam are only less queer than 
their houses. The men dress in a solid, old-fashioned 
way. Every one wears the straight, high-crowned silk 
hat, that went out with us years ago, and the cut of 
clothing of even the most buckish young fellows is 
behind the times. I stepped into the Exchange, an 
immense interior, that will hold five thousand people, 
where the stock-gamblers meet twice a day. It was 
very different from the terrible excitement and noise of 
the Paris Bourse. There were three or four thousand 
brokers there, yet there was very little noise and no con- 



AMSTERDAM. 35 

fusion. No stocks were called, and there was no central 
ring for bidding, as at the Bourse and the New York 
Gold Room ; but they quietly bought and sold. Some of 
the leading firms had desks or tables at the side, and 
there awaited orders. Every thing was phlegmatically 
and decorously done. 

In the streets one still s^s peasant-women in native 
costume. There was a group to-day that I saw by the 
river, evidently just crossed over from North Holland. 
They wore short dresses, with the upper skirt looped 
up, and had broad hips and big waists. On the head 
was a cap with a fall of lace behind ; across the back 
of the head a broad band of silver (or tin) three inches 
broad, which terminated in front and just above the ears 
in bright pieces of metal about two inches square, like a 
horse's blinders, only flaring more from the head ; across 
the forehead and just above the eyes a gilt band, em- 
bossed ; on the temples two plaits of hair in circular 
coils ; and on top of all a straw hat, like an old-fashioned 
bonnet, stuck on hindside before. Spiral coils of brass 
wire, coming to a point in front, are also worn on each 
side of the head by many. Whether they arq for orna- 
ment or defence, I could not determine. 

Water is brought into the city now from Haarlem, and 
introduced into the best houses ; but it is still sold in the 
streets by old men and women, who sit at the faucets. I 
saw one dried-up old grandmother, who sat in her little 
caboose, fighting away the crowd of dirty children who 
tried to steal a drink when her back was turned, keep- 
ing count of the pails of water carried away with a piece 
of chalk on the iron pipe, and trying to darn her stock- 
ing at the same time. Odd things strike you at every 
turn. There is a sledge drawn by one poor horse, and 
on the front of it is a cask of water pierced with holes, 
so that the water squirts out and wets the stones, making 
it easier sliding for the runners. It is an ingenious 
people ! 

After all, we drove out five miles to Broek, the clean 



36 AMSTERDAM. 

villajre ; across the Y, up the canal, over flatness flat- 
tened. Broek is a humbug, as almost all show places 
are. A wooden little village on a stagnant canal, into 
which carriages do not drive, and where the front-doors 
of the houses are never open ; a dead, uninteresting 
place, neat but not specially pretty, where you are 
shown into one house got up for the purpose, which 
looks inside like a crockery shop, and has a stiff Uttle 
garden with box trained in shapes of animals and furni- 
ture. A roomy-breeched young Dutchman, whose trou- 
sers went up to his neck, and his hat to a peak, walked 
before us in slow and cowlike fashion, and showed us 
the place ; especially some horrid pleasure-grounds, with 
an image of an old man reading in a summer-house, and 
an old couple in a cottage who sat at a table and 
worked, or ate, I forget which, by clock-work ; while a 
dog barked by the same means. In a pond was a wooden 
swan sitting on a stick, the water having receded, and 
left it high and dry. Yet the trip is worth while for the 
view of the country and the people on the way : men 
and women towing boats on the canals ; the red-tiled 
houses painted green, and in the distance the villages, 
with their spires and pleasing mixture of brown, green, 
and red tints, are very picturesque. The best thing 
that I saw, however, was a traditional Dutchman walk- 
ing on the high bank of a canal, with soft hat, short pipe, 
and breeches that came to the armpits above, and a little 
below the knees, and were broad enough about the seat 
and thighs to carry his no doubt numerous family. He 
made a fine figure against the sky. 



COLOGNE AND ST. URSULA. 



IT is a relief to- get out of Holland and into a coun- 
try nearer to hills. The' people also seem more 
obliging. In Cologne, a brown-cheeked girl pointed us 
out the way without waiting for a kreuzer. Perhaps the 
women have more to busy themselves about in the cities, 
and are not so curious about passers-by. We rarely see 
a reflector to exhibit us to the occupants of the second- 
story windows. In all the cities of Belgium and Holland 
the ladies have small mirrors, with reflectors, fastened 
to their windows ; so that they can see everybody who 
passes, without putting their heads out. I trust we are 
not inverted or thrown out of shape when we are thus 
caught up and cast into my lady's chamber. Cologne 
has a cheerful look, for the Rhine here is wide and prom- 
ising ; and as for the " smells," they are certainly not 
so many nor so vile as those at Mainz. 

Our windows at the hotel looked out on the finest 
front of the cathedral. If the Devil really built it, he is 
to be credited with one good thing, and it is now Hkely 
to be finished, in spite of him. Large as it is, it is on 
the exterior not so impressive as that at Amiens ; but 
within it has a magnificence born of a vast design and 
the most harmonious proportions, and the grand effect 
is not broken by any subdivision but that of the choir. 
Behind the altar and in front of the chapel, where lie 
the remains of the Wise Men of the East who came to 
worship the Child, or, as they are called, the Three Kings 
of Cologne, we walked over a stone in the pavement 

37 



38 COLOGNE AND ST. URSULA, 

under whicli is the heart of Mary de Medicis : the re- 
mainder of her body is in St. Denis, near Paris. The 
beadle in red clothes, who stalks about the cathedral 
like a converted flamingo, offered to open for us the 
chapel ; but we declined a sight of the very bones of the 
Wise Men. It was difficult enough to believe they were 
there, without seeing them. One ought not to subject 
his faith to too great a strain at first in Europe. The 
bones of the Three Kings, by the way, made the fortune 
of the cathedral. They were the greatest religious card 
of the Middle Ages, and their fortunate possession 
brought a flood of wealth to this old Domkirche. The 
old feudal lords would swear by the Almighty Father, 
or the Son, or Holy Ghost, or by every thing sacred on 
earth, and break their oaths as they would break a wisp 
of straw : but, if you could get one of them to swear by 
the Three Kings of Cologne, he was fast ; for that oath 
he dare not disregard. 

The prosperity of the cathedral on these valuable 
bones set all the other churches in the neighborhood on 
the same track ; and one can study right here in this 
city the growth of relic worship. But the most success- 
ful achievement was the collection of the bones of St. 
Ursula and the eleven thousand virgins, and their pres- 
ervation in the church on the very spot where they 
suffered martyrdom. There is probably not so large a 
collection of the bones of virgins elsewhere in the world ; 
and I am sorry to read that Professor Owen has thought 
proper to see and say that many of them are the bones 
of lower orders of animals. They are built into the walls 
of the church, arranged about the choir, interred in stone 
cofiins, laid under the pavements ; and their skulls grin 
at you everywhere. In the chapel the bones are taste- 
fully built into the wall and overhead, like rustic wood- 
work ; and the skulls stand in rows, some with silver 
masks, like the jars on the shelves of an apothecary's 
shop. It is a cheerful place. On the little altar is the 
very skull of the saint herself, and that of Conan, her 



COLOGNE AND ST. URSULA. 39 

lover, who made the holy pilgrimage to Rome with 
her and her virgins, and also was slain by the Huns at 
Cologne. There is a picture of the eleven thousand dis- 
embarking from one boat on the Rhine, which is as 
wonderful as the trooping of hundreds of spirits out of a 
conjurer's bottle. The right arm of St. Ursula is pre- 
served here : the left is at Bruges. I am gradually get- 
ting the hang of this excellent but somewhat scattered 
woman, and bringing her together in my mind. Her 
body, I believe, lies behind the altar in this same church. 
She must have been a lovely character, if Hans Memling's 
portrait of her is a faithful one. I was glad to see here 
one of the jars from the marriage-supper in Cana. We 
can identify it by a piece which is broken out ; and the 
piece is in Notre Dame in Paris. It has been in this 
church five hundred years. The sacristan, a very intel- 
hgent person, with a shaven crown and his hair cut 
straight across his forehead, who showed us the church, 
gave us much useful information about bones, teeth, and 
the remains of the garments that the virgins wore ; and 
I could not tell from his face how much he expected us 
to believe. I asked the little fussy old guide of an 
English party who had joined us, how much he believed 
of the story. He was a Protestant, and replied, still 
anxious to keep up the credit of his city, " Tousands 
is too many; some hundreds maybe; tousands is too 
many." 



A GLIMPSE OF THE RHINE. 



TOU have seen tlie Rhine in pictures; you have 
read its legends. You know, in imagination at 
least, how it winds among craggy hills of splendid form, 
turning so abruptly as to leave you often shut in with no 
visible outlet from the wall of rock and forest ; how the 
castles, some in ruins so as to be as unsightly as any old 
pile of rubbish, others with feudal towers and iDattle- 
ments, still perfect, hanging on the crags, or standing 
sharp against the sky, or nestling by the stream, or on 
some lonely island. You know that the Khine has been 
to Germans what the Nile was to the Egyptians, — a 
delight, and the theme of song and story. Here the 
Roman eagles were planted ; here were the camps of 
Drusus here Caesar bridged and crossed the Rhine ; 
here, at v^v^ery turn, a feudal baron, from his high castle, 
levied toll on the passers ; and here the French found 
a momentary halt to their invasion of Germany at dif- 
ferent times. You can imagine how, in a misty morn- 
ing, as you leave Bonn, the Seven Mountains rise up in 
their veiled might, and how the Drachenfels stands in new 
and changing beauty as you pass it and sail away. You 
have been told that the Hudson is like the Rhine. Be- 
lieve me, there is no resemblance ; nor would there be 
if the Hudson were lined with castles, and Julius Caesar 
had crossed it every half-mile. The Rhine satisfies you, 
and you do not recall any other river. It only disap- 
points you as to its " vine-clad hills." You miss trees 
and a coverino; vegetation, and are not enamoured of the 
40 



A GLIMPSE OF THE RHINE. 41 

patches of green vines on wall-supported terraces, look- 
ing from the river like hills of beans or ^potatoes. And, 
if you try the Rhine wine on the steamers, you will 
wholly lose your faith in the vintage. We decided that 
the wine on our boat was manufactured in the boiler. 

There is a mercenary atmosphere about hotels and 
steamers on the Rhine, a watering-place, show-sort of 
feeling, that detracts very much from one's enjoyment. 
The old habit of the robber barons of levying toll on all 
who sail up and down has not been lost. It is not that 
one actually pays so much for sight-seeing, but the charm 
of any thing vanishes when it is made merchandise. 
One is almost as reluctant to buy his " views " as he is 
to sell his opinions. But one ought to be weeks on the 
Rhine before attempting to say any thing about it. 

One morning, at Bingen, — I assure you it was not 
six o'clock, — we took a big little row-boat, and dropped 
down the stream, past the Mouse Tower, where the cruel 
Bishop Hatto was eaten up by rats, under the shattered 
Castle of Ehrenfels, round the bend to the little village 
of Assmannshausen, on the hills back of which is grown 
the famous red wine of that name. On the bank walked 
in line a dozen peasants, men and women, in picturesque 
dress, towing, by a line passed from shoulder to shoulder, 
a boat filled with marketing for Riidesheim. We were 
bound up the Niederwald, the mountain opposite Bin- 
gen, whose noble crown of forest attracted us. At the 
landing, donkeys awaited us ; and we began the ascent, 
a stout, good-natured German girl acting as guide and 
driver. Behind us, on the opposite shore, set round 
about with a wealth of foliage, was the Castle of Rhein- 
stein, a fortress more pleasing in its proportions and 
situation than any other. Our way was through the 
little town which is jammed into the gorge; and as we 
clattered up the pavement, past the church, its heavy 
bell began to ring loudly for matins, the sound rever- 
berating in the narrow way, and following us with its 
benediction when we were far up the hill, breathing the 



42 A GLIMPSE OF THE RHINE. 

fresh, inspiring morning air. The top of the Ni^derwald 
is a splendid forest of trees, which no impious French- 
man has been allowed to trim, and cut into allees of 
arches, taking one in thought across the water to the 
free Adirondacks. We walked for a long time under 
the welcome shade, approaching the brow of the hill 
now and then, where some tower or hermitage is erected, 
for a view of the Rhine and the Nahe, the villages below, 
and the hills around ; and then crossed the mountain, 
down through cherry orchards, and vineyards, walled up, 
with images of Christ on the cross on the angles of the 
walls, down through a hot road, where wild-flowers grew 
in great variety, to the quaint village of Riidesheim, 
with its queer streets and ancient ruins. Is it possible 
that we can have too many ruins ? " Oh, dear 1 " ex- 
claimed the jung-frau, as we sailed along the last day, 
" if there isn't another castle 1 ** 



HEIDELBERG. 

IF you come to Heidelberg, you will never want to go 
away. To arrive here is to come into a peaceful 
state ofrest and content. The great hills out of which 
the Neckar flows infold the town in a sweet security ; 
and yet there is no sense of imprisonment, for the view 
is always wide open to the great plains where the Neckar 
goes to join the Rhine, and where the Rhine runs for 
many a league through a rich and smiling land. One 
could settle down here to study, without a desire to go 
farther, nor any wish to change the dingy, shabby old 
buildings of the university for any thing newer and 
smarter. What the students can find to fight their 
little duels about I cannot see ; but fight they do, as 
many a scarred cheek attests. The students give life to 
the town. They go about in little caps of red, green, and 
blue, many of them embroidered in gold, and stuck so far 
on the forehead that they require an elastic, like that 
worn by ladies, under the back hair, to keep them on ; 
and they are also distinguished by colored ribbons across 
the breast. The majority of them are well-behaved 
young gentlemen, who carry switch-canes, and try to 
keep near the fashions, like students at home. Some 
like to swagger about in their little skull-caps, and now 
and then one is attended by a bull-dog. 

I write in a room which opens out upon a balcony. 
Below it is a garden, below that foliage, and farther 
down the town with its old speckled roofs, spires, and 
queer little squares. Beyond is the Neckar, with the 

43 



44 HEIDELBERG. 

bridge, and white statues on it, and an old city gate at 
this end, with pointed towers. Beyond that is a white 
road with a wall on one side, along which I see peasant- 
women walking with large baskets balanced on their 
heads. The road runs down the river to Neuenheim. 
Above it on the steep hillside are vineyards ; and a 
winding path goes up to the Philosopher's Walk, which 
runs along for a mile or more, giving delightful views of 
the castle and the glorious woods and hills back of it. 
Above it is the mountain of Heiligenberg, from the other 
side of which one looks off toward Darmstadt and the 
famous road, the Bergstrasse. If I look down the stream, 
I see the narrow town, and the Neckar flowing out of it 
into the vast level plain, rich with grain and trees and 
grass, with many spires and villages ; Mannheim to the 
northward, shining when the sun is low ; the Khine 
gleaming here and there near the. horizon; and the 
Vosges Mountains, purple in the last distance : on my 
right, and so near that I could throw a stone into them, 
the ruined tower and battlements of the north-west corner 
of the castle, half hidden in foliage, with statues framed' 
in ivy, and the garden terrace, built for Elizabeth Stuart 
when she came here the bride of the Elector Frederick, 
where giant trees grow. Under the walls a steep path 
goes down into the town, along which little houses cling 
to the hillside. High above the castle rises the noble 
Konigstuhl, whence the whole of this part of Germany 
is visible, and, in a clear day, Strasburg Minster, ninety 
miles away. 

I have only to go a few steps up a narrow, steep street, 
lined with the queerest houses, where is an ever-run- 
ning pipe of good water, to which all the neighborhood 
resorts, and I am within the grounds of the castle. I 
scarcely know where to take you ; for I never know 
where to go myself, and seldom do go where I intend 
when I set forth. We have been here several days ; and 
I have not yet seen the Great Tun, nor the inside of the 
show-rooms, nor scarcely any thing that is set down as a 



_ HEIDELBERG. 45 

" sight." I do not know whether to wander on through 
the extensive grounds, with splendid trees, bits of old 
ruin, overgrown, cosey nooks, and seats where, through 
the foliage, distant prospects open into quiet retreats 
that lead to winding walks up the terraced hill, round to 
-the open terrace overlooking the Neckar, and giving the 
best general view of the great mass of ruins. If we do, 
we shall be likely to sit in some delicious place, listen- 
ing to the band playing in the " Restauration," and to 
the nightingales, till the moon comes up. Or shall we 
turn into the garden through the lovely Arch of the 
Princess Elizabeth, with its stone columns cut to resem- 
ble tree-trunks twined with ivy ? Or go rather through 
the great archway, and under the teeth of the portcul- 
lis, into the irregular quadrangle, whose buildings mark 
the changing style and fortune of successive centuries, 
from 1300 down to the seventeenth century? There is 
probably no richer quadrangle in Europe : there is cer- 
tainly no other ruin so vast, so impressive, so ornamented 
with carving, except the Alhambra. And from here we 
pass out upon the broad terrace of masonry, with a 
splendid flanking octagon tower, its base hidden in trees, 
a rich facade for a background, and below the town the 
river, and beyond the plain and floods of golden sun- 
light. What shall we do ? Sit and dream in the Rent 
Tower under the lindens that grow in its top ? The day 
passes while one is deciding how to spend it, and the 
sun over Heiligenberg goes down on his purpose. 



ALPINE NOTES. 



ENTERING SWITZERLAND. — BERNE, 
ITS BEAUTIES AND BEARS. 

IF you come to Bale, you should take rooms on tte 
river, or stand on the bridge at evening, and have 
a sunset of gold and crimson streaming down upon 
the wide and strong Rhine, where it rushes between 
the houses built plumb up to it, or you will not care 
much for the city. And yet it is pleasant on the high 
ground, where are some stately buildings, and where 
new gardens are laid out, and where the American 
consul on the Fourth of July flies our flag over the 
balcony of a little cottage smothered in vines and gay 
with flowers. I had the honor of saluting it that day, 
though I did not know at the time that gold had risen 
two or three per cent under its blessed folds at home. 
Not being a shipwrecked sailor, or a versatile and accom- 
plished but impoverished naturalized citizen, desirous 
of quick transit to the land of the free, I did not call 
upon the consul, but left him under the no doubt cor- 
rect impression that he was doing a good thing by un- 
folding the flag on the Fourth. 

You have not journeyed far from Bale before you are 
aware that you are in Switzerland. It was showery the 
day we went down ; but the ride filled us with the most 
exciting expectations. The country recalled New Eng- 
land, or what New England might be, if it were culti- 
vated and adorned, and had good roads and no fences. 
Here at last, after the dusty German valleys, we entered 
among real hills, round which and through which, by 

49 



50 ENTERING SWITZERLAND. 

enormous tunnels, our train slowly went : rocks looking 
out of foliage ; sweet little valleys, green as in early 
spring ; the dark evergreens in contrast ; snug cottages 
nestled in the hillsides, showing little else than enor- 
mous brown roofs that come nearly to the ground, giving 
the cottages the appearance of huge toadstools; fine 
harvests of grain ; thrifty apple-trees, and cherry-trees 
purple with luscious fruit. And this shifting panorama 
continues until, towards evening, behold, on a hill, Berne, 
shining through showers, the old feudal round tower and 
buildinsrs overhano-ino; the Aar, and the tower of the 
cathedral over all. From the balcony of our rooms at 
the Bellevue, the long range of the Bernese Oberland 
shows its white summits for a moment in the slant sun- 
shine, and then the clouds shut down, not to lift again 
for two days. Yet it looks warmer on the snow peaks 
than in Berne, for summer sets in in Switzerland with a 
New England chill and rigor. 

The traveller finds no city with more flavor of the 
picturesque and quaint than Berne ; and I think it must 
have preserved the Swiss characteristics better than any 
other of the large towns in Helvetia. It stands upon a 
peninsula, round which the Aar, a hundred feet below, 
rapidly flows ; and one has on nearly every side very 
pretty views of the green basin of hills which rise beyond 
the river. It is a most comfortable town on a rainy day ; 
for all the principal streets have their houses built on 
arcades, and one walks under the low arches, with the 
shops on one side and the huge stone pillars on the 
other. These pillars so stand out toward the street as 
to give the house-fronts a curved look. Above are bal- 
conies, in which, upon red cushions, sit the daughters of 
Berne, reading and sewing, and watching their neigh- 
bors; and in every window nearly are quantities of 
flowers of the most brilliant colors. The gray stone of 
the houses, which are piled up from the streets, harmo- 
nizes well with the colors in the windows and balconies ; 
and the scene is quite Oriental as one looks down, espe- 



BERNE, ITS BEAUTIES AND BEARS. 51 

cially if it be upon a market morning, when the streets 
are as thronged as the Strand. Several terraces, with 
great trees, overlook the river, and command prospects 
of the Alps. These are public places ; for the city gov- 
ernment has a queer notion that trees are not hideous, 
and that a part of the use of living is the enjoyment of 
the beautiful. I saw an elegant bank building, with 
carved figures on the front, and at each side of the 
entrance door a large stand of flowers, — oleanders, gera- 
niums, and fuchsias ; while the windows and balconies 
above bloomed with a like warmth of floral color. 
Would you put an American bank president in the Re- 
treat who should so decorate his banking-house ? We 
all admire the tasteful display of flowers in foreign 
towns : we go home, and carry nothing with us but a 
recollection. But Berne has also fountains everywhere ; 
some of them grotesque, like the ogre that devours his 
own children, but all a refreshment and delight. And 
it has also its clock-tower, with one of those ingenious 
pieces of mechanism, in which the sober people of this 
region take pleasure. At the hour, a procession of little 
bears goes round, a jolly figure strikes the time, a cock 
flaps his wings and crows, and a solemn Turk opens his 
mouth to announce the flight of the hours. It is more 
grotesque, but less elaborate, than the equally childish 
toy in the cathedral at Strasburg. 

We went Sunday morning to the cathedral ; and the ex- 
cellent woman who guards the portal — where in ancient 
stone the Last Judgment is enacted, and the cheerful and 
conceited wise virgins stand over against the foolish vir- 
gins, one of whom has been in the penitential attitude 
of having a stone finger in her eye now for over three 
hundred years — refused at first to admit us to the German 
Lutheran service, which was just beginning. It seems 
that doors are locked, and no one is allowed to issue 
forth until after service. There seems to be an impres- 
sion that strangers only go to hear the organ, which is a 
sort of rival of that at Freiburg, and do not care much 



52 ENTERING SWITZERLAND, 

for the well-prepared and protracted discourse in Swiss- 
German. We agreed to the terms of admission ; but it 
did not speak well for former travellers that the woman 
should think it necessary to say, " You must sit still, and 
not talk." It is a barn-like interior. The women all sit 
on hard, high-backed benches in the centre of the church, 
and the men on hard, higher-backed benches about the 
sides, enclosing and facing the women, who are more 
directly under the droppings of the little pulpit, hung 
on one of the pillars, — a very solemn and devout con- 
gregation, who sang very well, and paid strict attention 
to the sermon. I noticed that the names of the owners, 
and sometimes their coats-of-arms, were carved or 
painted on the backs of the seats, as if the pews were 
not put up at yearly auction. One would not call it a 
dressy congregation, though the homely women looked 
neat in black waists and white puffed sleeves and broad- 
brimmed hats. 

The only concession I have anywhere seen to women 
in Switzerland, as the more delicate sex, was in this 
church : they sat during most of the service, but the 
men stood all the time, except during the delivery of 
the sermon. The service began at nine o'clock, as it 
ought to with us in summer. The costume of the peas- 
ant-women in and about Berne comes nearer to being 
picturesque than in most other parts of Switzerland, 
where.it is simply ugly. You know the sort of thing in 
pictures, — the broad hat, short skirt, black, pointed stom- 
acher, with white puffed sleeves, and from each breast a 
large silver chain hanging, which passes under the arm 
and fastens on the shoulder behind, — a very favorite 
ornament. This costume would not be unbecoming to 
a pretty face and figure : whether there are any such 
native to Switzerland, I trust I may not be put upon the 
witness-stand to declare. Some of the peasant young 
men went without coats, and with the shirt-sleeves 
fluted ; and others wore butternut-colored suits, the coats 
of which I can recommend to those who like the swal- 



BERNE, ITS BEAUTIES AND BEARS. 53 

low-tailed variety. I suppose one would take a man 
into the opera in London, where he cannot go in any- 
thing but that sort. The buttons on the backs of these 
came high up between the shoulders, and the tails did 
not reach below the waistband. There is a kind of 
rooster of similar appearance. I saw some of these 
young men from the country, with their sweethearts, 
leaning over the stone parapet, and looking into the pit 
of the bear-garden, where the city bears walk round, or 
sit on their hind legs for bits of bread thrown to them, 
or douse themselves in the tanks, or climb the dead trees 
set up for their gambols. Years ago they ate up a British 
officer who fell in ; and they walk round now ceaselessly, 
as if looking for another. But one cannot expect good 
taste in a bear. 

If you would see how charming a farming country can 
be, drive out on the highway towards Thun. For miles 
it is well shaded with giant trees of enormous trunks, 
and a clean sidewalk runs by the fine road. On either 
side, at little distances from the. road, are picturesque 
cottages and rambling old farmhouses peeping from the 
trees and vines and flowers. Everywhere flowers, be- 
fore the house, in the windows, at the railway stations. 
But one cannot stay forever even in delightful Berne, 
with its fountains and terraces, and girls on red cushions 
in the windows, and noble trees and flowers, and its 
stately federal Capitol, and its bears carved everywhere 
in stone and wood ; nor its sunrises, when all the Bernese 
Alps lie like molten silver in the early light, and the 
clouds drift over them, now hiding, now disclosing, the 
enchanting heights. 



HEARING THE FREIBURG ORGAN.— 
FIRST SIGHT OF LAKE LEMAN. 

FREIBURG, with its aerial suspension-bridges, is 
also on a peninsula, formed by the Sarine ; with its 
old walls, old watch-towers, its piled-up old houses, and 
streets that go up stairs, and its delicious cherries, which 
you can eat while you sit in the square by the famous 
linden-tree, and wait for the time when the organ will 
be played in the cathedral. For all the world stops at 
Freiburg to hear and enjoy the great organ, — all except 
the self-satisfied English clergyman, who says he doesn't 
care much for it, and would rather go about town and 
see the old walls; and the young and boorish French 
couple, whose refined amusement in the railway-carriage 
consisted in the young man's catching his wife's foot in 
the window-strap, and hauling it up to the level of the 
window, and who cross themselves and go out after the 
first tune ; and the two bread-and-butter English young 
ladies, one of whom asks the other in the midst of the 
performance, if she has thought yet to count the pipes, 
— a thoughtful verification of Murray, which is very 
commendable in a young woman travelling for the im- 
provement of her little mind. 

One has heard so much of this organ, that he expects 
impossibilities, and is at first almost disappointed, al- 
though it is not long in discovering its vast compass, 
and its wonderful imitations, now of a full orchestra, 
and again of a single instrument. One has not to wait 
long before he is mastered by its spell. The vox humana 
54 



HEARING THE FREIBURG ORGAN. 55. 

stop did not strike me as so perfect as that of the organ 
in the Rev, Mr. Hale's church in Boston, though the 
imitation of choir-voices responding to the organ was 
very effective. But it is not in tricks of imitation that 
this organ is so wonderful : it is its power of revealing, 
by all its compass, the inmost part of any musical com- 
position. 

The last piece we -heard was something like this: 
the sound of a bell, tolling at regular intervals, Uke the 
throbbing of a life begun ; about it an accompaniment 
of hopes, inducements, fears, the flute, the violin, the 
violoncello, promising, urging, entreating, inspiring; the 
life beset with trials, lured with pleasures, hesitating, 
doubting, questioning ; its purpose at length grows more 
certain and fixed, the bell tolling becomes a prolonged 
undertone, the flow of a definite life ; the music goes on, 
twinino; round it, now one sweet instrument and now 
many, in strife or accord, all the influences of earth and 
heaven and the base under world meeting and warring 
over the aspiring soul ; the struggle becomes more earnest, 
the undertone is louder and clearer ; the accompaniment 
indicates striving, contesting passion, an agony of en- 
deavor and resistance, until at length the steep and rocky 
way is passed, the world and self are conquered, and, in 
a burst of triumph from a full orchestra, the soul attains 
the serene summit. But the rest is only for a moment. 
Even in the highest places are temptations. The sun- 
shine fails, clouds roll up, growling of low, pedal thun- 
der is heard, while sharp lightning-flashes soon break in 
clashing peals about the peaks. This is the last Alpine 
storm and trial. After it the sun bursts out again, the 
wide, sunny valleys are disclosed, and a sweet evening 
hymn floats through all the peaceful air. We go out 
from the cool church into the busy streets of the white, 
gray town awed and comforted. 

And such a ride afterwards ! It was as if the organ 
music still continued. All the world knows the exquisite 
views southward from Freiburg ; but such an atmosphere 



56 FIRST SIGHT OF LAKE LEMAN. 

as we had does not overhang them many times in a sea- 
son. First the Moleross, and a range of mountains 
bathed in misty blue light, — rugged peaks, scarred sides, 
■white and tawny at once, rising into the clouds which 
hung large and soft in the blue ; soon Mont Blanc, dim 
and aerial, in the south; the lovely valley of the River 
Sense ; peasants walking with burdens on the white 
highway; the quiet and soft-tinted mountains beyond ; 
towns perched on hills, with old castles and towers ; the 
land rich with grass, grain, fruit, flowers ; at Palezieux 
a magnificent view of the silver, purple, and blue moun- 
tains, with their chalky seams and gashed sides, near at 
hand ; and at length, coming through a long tunnel, as 
if we had been shot out into the air above a country 
more surprising than any in dreams, the most wonderful 
sight burst upon us, — the low-lying, deep-blue Lake 
Leman, and the gigantic mountains rising from its shores, 
and a sort of mist, translucent, suffused with sunlight, 
like the liquid of the golden wine the Steinberger 
poured into the vast basin. We came upon it out of 
total darkness, without warning ; and we seemed, from 
our great height, to be about to leap into the splendid 
gulf of tremulous light and color. 

This Lake of Geneva is said to combine the robust 
mountain grandeur of Luzerne with all the softness of 
atmosphere of Lake Maggiore. Surely, nothing could 
exceed the loveliness as we wound down the hillside, 
through the vineyards, to Lausanne, and farther on, near 
the foot of the lake, to Montreux, backed by precipitous 
but tree-clad hills, fronted by the lovely water, and the 
great mountains which run away south into Savoy, 
where Velan lifts up its snows. Below us, round the 
curving bay, lies white Chillon ; and at sunset we row 
down to it over the bewitched water, and wait under its 
grim walls till the failing light brings back the romance 
of castle and prisoner. Our gar^on had never heard of 
the prisoner ; but he knew about the gendarmes who 
now occupy the castle. 



OUR ENGLISH FRIENDS. 

"IVTOT the least of the traveller's pleasure in Switzer- 
, 1 Nl land is derived from the English people who over- 
run it : they seem to regard it as a kind of private park 
or preserve belonging to England ; and they establish 
themselves at hotels, or on steamboats and diligences, 
with a certain air of ownership that is very pleasant. I 
am not very fresh in my geology ; but it is my impression 
that Switzerland was created especially for the English, 
about the year of the Magna Charta, or a little later. 
The Germans who come here, and who don't care very 
Qiuch what they eat, or how they sleep, provided they do 
not have any fresh air in dining-room or bedroom, and 
provided, also, that the bread is a little sour, growl a good 
deal about the English, and declare that they have spoiled 
Switzerland. The natives, too, who live off' the English, 
seem, to thoroughly hate them ; so that one is often com- 
pelled, in self-defence, to proclaim his nationality, which 
is like running from Scylla upon Charybdis ; for, while 
the American is more popular, it is believed that there 
is no bottom to his pocket. 

There was a sprig of the Church of England on the 
steamboat on Lake Leman, who spread himself upon a 
centre bench, and discoursed very instructively to his 
friends, — a stout, fat-faced young man in a white cravat, 
whose voice was at once loud and melodious, and whom 
our manly Oxford student set down as a man who had 
just rubbed through the university, and got into a scanty 
living. 

57 



58 OUR ENGLISH FRIENDS. 

" I met an American on the boat yesterday," the oracle 
was saying to his friends, "who was really quite a 
pleasant fellow. He — a really was, you know, quite a 
sensible man. I asked him if they had any thing like 
this in America; and he was obliged to say that they 
hadn't any thing like it in his country ; they really hadn't. 
He was really quite a sensible fellow ; said he was over 
here to do the European tour, as he called it." 

Small, sympathetic laugh from the attentive, wiry, red- 
faced woman on the oracle's left, and also a chuckle, at 
the expense of the American, from the thin Englishman 
on his right, who wore a large white waistcoat, a blue veil 
on his hat, and a face as red as a live coal. 

" Quite an admission, wasn't it, from an American ? 
But I think they have changed since the wah, you know." 

At the next landing, the smooth and beaming church- 
man was left by his friends ; and he soon retired to the 
cabin, where I saw him self-sacrificingly denying himself 
the views on deck, and consoling himself with a substan- . 
tial lunch and a bottle of English ale. 

There is one thing to be said about the English abroad : 
the variety is almost infinite. The best acquaintances 
one makes will be English, — people with no nonsense 
and strong individuality ; and one gets no end of enter- 
tainment from the other sort. Very different from the 
clergyman on the boat was the old lady at table-dliote 
in one of the hotels on the lake. One would not like to 
call her a delightfully-wicked old woman, like the Bar- 
oness Bernstein ; but she had her own witty and satiri- 
cal way of regarding the world. She had lived twenty- 
five years at Geneva, where people, years ago, coming 
over the dusty and hot roads of France, used to faint 
away when they first caught sight of the Alps. Be- 
lieve they don't do it now. She never did ; was past 
the susceptible age when she first came ; was tired of 
the people. • Honest ? Why, yes, honest, but ^^ixy fond 
of money. Fine Swiss wood-carving? Yes. You'll 
get very sick of it. It's very nice, but I'm tired of it. 



OUR ENGLISH FRIENDS, ' 59 

Years ago, I sent some of it home to the folks in Eng- 
land. They thought every thing of it ; and it wasn't 
very nice, either, — a cheap sort. Moral ideas ? I don't 
care for moral ideas : people make such a fuss about 
them lately (this in reply to her next neighbor, an 
eccentric, thin man, with bushy hair, shaggy eyebrows, 

jgend a, high, falsetto voice, who rallied the witty old lady 
all dinner-time about her lack of moral ideas, and accu- 
rately described the thin wine on the table as " water- 
bewitched "). Why didn't the baroness go back to Eng- 

' land, if she was so tired of Switzerland ? Well, she was 
too infirm now ; and, besides, she didn't like to trust 
herself on the railroads. And there were so many new 
inventions now-a-days, of which she read. What was 
this nitro-glycerine, that exploded so dreadfully ? No : 
she thought she should stay where she was. 

There is little risk of mistakino; the Eno;lisliman, with 
or without his family, who has set out to do Switzerland. 
He wears a brandy-flask, a field-glass, and a haversack. 
Whether he has a silk or soft hat, he is certain to wear a 
veil tied round it. This precaution is adopted when he 
makes up his mind to come to Switzerland, I think, be- 
cause he has read that a veil is necessary to protect the 
eyes from the snow-glare. There is probably not one 
traveller in a hundred who gets among tiie ice and snow- 
fields where he needs a veil or green glasses: but it is 
well to have it on the hat; it looks adventurous. The 
veil and the spiked alpenstock are the signs of peril. 
Everybody — almost everybody — has an alpenstock. 
It is usually a round pine stick, with an iron spike in one 
end. That, also, is a sign of peril. We saw a noble 
young Briton on the steamer the other day, who was 
got up in the best Alpine manner. He wore a short 
sack, — in fact, an entire suit of light gray flannel, which 
closely fitted his lithe form. His shoes were of un- 
dressed leather, with large spikes in the soles ; and on 
his white hat he wore a large quantity of gauze, which 
fell in folds down his neck. I am sorry to say that he 



6o OUR ENGLISH FRIENDS. 

had a red face, a shaven chin, and long side-whiskers. 
He carried a formidable alpenstock ; and at the little 
landino; where we first saw him, and afterward on the 
boat, he leaned on it m a series of the most graceful and 
daring attitudes that I ever saw the human form assume. 
Our Oxford student knew the variety, and guessed 
rightly that he was an army man. He had his face 
burned at Malta. Had he been over the Gemmi ? iBr 
up this or that mountain V asked another English offi- 
cer. "No, I have not." And it turned out that he 
hadn't been anywhere, and didn't seem likely to do any 
thing but show himself at the frequented valley places. 
And yet I never saw one whose gallant bearing I so 
much admired. We saw him afterward at Interlaken, 
enduring all the hardships of that fashionable place. 
There was also there another of the same country, got 
up for the most dangerous Alpine climbing, conspicuous 
in red woollen stockings that came above his knees. I 
could not learn that he ever went up any thing higher 
than the top of a diligence. 



' THE DILIGENCE TO CHAMOUNY. 

THE greatest diligence we have seen, one of the few 
of the old-fashioned sort, is the one from Geneva 
to Chamouny. It leaves early in the morning ; and 
there is always a crowd about it to see the mount and 
start. The great ark stands before the diligence-office, 
and, for half an hour before the hour of starting, the por- 
ters are busy stowing away the baggage, and getting the 
passengers on board. On top, in the banquette, are 
seats for eight, besides the postilion and guard ; in the 
coupe, under the postilion's seat, and looking upon the 
horses, seats for three ; in the interior, for three ; and on 
top, behind, for six or eight. The baggage is stowed in 
the capacious bowels of the vehicle. At seven, the six 
horses are brought out and hitched on, three abreast. 
We climb up a ladder to the banquette : there is an 
irascible Frenchman, who gets into the wrong seat ; and 
before he gets right there is a terrible war of words 
between him and the guard and the porters and the 
hostlers, everybody joining in with great vivacity : in 
front of us are three quiet Americans, and a slim French- 
man with a tall hat and one eye-glass. The postilion 
gets up to his place. Crack, crack, crack, goes the 
whip ; and, amid " sensation " from the crowd, we are 
off at a rattling pace, the whip cracking all the time hke 
Chinese fireworks. The great passion of the drivers is 
noise ; and they keep the whip going all day. No 
sooner does a fresh one mount the box than he gives a 
half-dozea preliminary snaps ; to which the horses pay 

61 



62 THE DILIGENCE TO CHAMOUNY. 

no heed, as they know it is only for the driver's amuse- 
ment. We go at a good gait, changing horses every 
six miles, till we reach the Baths of St. Gervais, where 
we dine, from near which we get our first glimpse of Mont 
Blanc through clouds, — a section of a dazzlingly- white 
glacier, a very exciting thing to the imagination. Thence 
we go on in small carriages, over a still excellent bSat 
more hilly road, and begin to enter the real mountain 
wonders ; until, at length, real glaciers pouring down out 
of the clouds nearly to the road meet us, and we enter 
the narrow Valley of Chamouny, through which we drive 
to the village in a rain. 

Everybody goes to Chamouny, and up the Flegere, 
and to Montanvert, and over the Mer de Glace ; and 
nearly everybody down the Mauvais Pas to the Chapeau, 
and so back to the village. It is all easy to do ; and yet 
we saw some French people at the Chapeau who seemed 
to think they had accomplished the most hazardous thing 
in the world in coming down the rocks of the Mauvais 
Pas. There is, as might be expected, a great deal of 
humbug about the difficulty of getting about in the Alps, 
and the necessity of guides. Most of the dangers van- 
ish on near approach.* The Mer de Glace is inferior to 
many other glaciers, and is not nearly so fine as the 
Glacier des Bossons : but it has a reputation, and is easy 
of access ; so people are content to walk over the dirty 
ice. One sees it to better effect from below, or he must 
ascend it to the Jardin to know that it has deep cre- 
vasses, and is as treacherous as it is grand. And yet no 
one will be disappointed at the view from Montanvert, 
of the upper glacier, and the needles of rock and snow 
which rise beyond. 

We met at the Chapeau two jolly young fellows from 
Charleston, S. C, who had been in the war, on the 
wrong side. They knew no language but American, and 
were unable to order a cutlet and an omelet for break- 
fast. They said they believed they were going over the 
Tete Noire. They supposed they had four mules wait- 



THE DILIGENCE TO CIIAMOUNY. d^ 

ing for them somewlaere, and a guide ; but tliey couldn't 
understand a word he said, and he couldn't understand 
them. The day before, they had nearly perished of 
thirst, because they couldn't make their guide compre- 
hend that they wanted water. _One of them had slung 
over his shoulder an Alpine horn, which he blew occa- 
sionally, and seemed much to enjoy. All this while we 
sit on a rock at the foot of the Mauvais Pas, looking out 
upon the green glacier, which here jjiles itself up finely, 
and above to the Aiguilles de Charmoz and the innu- 
merable ice-pinnacles that run up to the clouds, while 
our muleteer is getting his breakfast. This is his third 
breakfast this morning. 

The day after we reached Chamouny, Monseigneur 
the bishop arrived there on one of his rare pilgrimages 
into these wild valleys. Nearly all the way down from 
Geneva, we had seen signs of his coming, in preparations 
as for the celebration of a great victory. I did not know 
at first but the Atlantic cable had been laid, or rather that 
the decorations were on account of the news of it reach- 
ing this region. It was a holiday for all classes; and 
everybody lent a hand to the preparations. First, the 
little church where the confirmations were to take place 
was trimmed within and without ; and an arch of green 
spanned the gateway. At Les Pres, the women were 
sweeping the road, and the men were setting small ever- 
green trees on each side. The peasants were in their 
best clothes ; and in front of their wretched hovels were 
tables set out with flowers. So cheerful and eager were 
they about the bishop, that they forgot to beg as we 
passed : the whole valley was in a fever of expectation. 
At one hamlet on the mule-path over the Tete Noire, 
where the bishop was that day expected, and the wo- 
men were sweeping away all dust and litter from the 
road, I removed my hat, and gravely thanked them for 
their thoughtful preparation for our coming. But they 
only stared a little, as if we were not worthy to be even 
forerunners of Monseigrneur. 



64 THE DILIGENCE TO CHAMOUNY. 

I do not care to write here how serious a drawback to 
the pleasures of this region are its inhabitants. You get 
the impression that half of them are beggars. The other 
half are watching for a chance to prey upon you in other 
ways. I heard of a woman in the Zormatt Valley who 
refused pay for a glass of milk ; but I did not have time 
to verify the report. Besides the beggars, who may or 
may not be horrid-looking creatures, there are the grin- 
ning Cretins, the old women with skins of parchment 
and the goitre, and even young children with the loath- 
some appendage, the most wretched and filthy hovels, 
and the dirtiest, ugliest people in them. The poor 
women are the beasts of burden. They often lead, mow- 
ing in the hayfield ; they carry heavy baskets on their 
backs ; they balance on their heads and carry large wash- 
tubs full of water. The more appropriate load of one 
was a cradle with a baby in it, which seemed not at all 
to fear falling. When one sees how the women are 
treated, he does not wonder that there are so many de- 
formed, hideous children. I think the pretty girl has yet 
to be born in Switzerland. 

This is not much about the Alps ? Ah, well, the Alps 
are there. Go read your guide-book, and find out what 
your emotions are. As I said, everybody goes to Cha- 
mouny. Is it not enough to sit at your window, and 
watch the clouds when they lift from the Mont Blanc 
range, disclosing splendor after splendor, from the 
Aiguille de Goute to the Aiguille Verte, — white needles 
which pierce the air for twelve thousand feet, until, jubi- 
late ! the round summit of the monarch himself is visible, 
and the vast expanse of white snow-fields, the whiteness of 
which is rather of heaven than of earth, dazzles the eyes, 
even at so great a distance ? Everybody who is patient, 
and waits in the cold and inhospitable-looking valley of 
the Chamouny long enough, sees Mont Blanc ; but every 
one does not see a sunset of the royal order. The clouds 
breaking up and clearing, after days of bad weather, 
showed us height after height, and peak after peak, now 



THE DILIGENCE TO C HA MO UN Y. 65 

■wreathing the summits, now settling below or hanging in 
patches on the sides, and again soaring above, until we 
had the whole range lying, far and brilliant, in the even- 
ing light. The clouds took on gorgeous colors, at length, 
and soon the snow caught the hue, and whole fields were 
rosy pink, while uplifted peaks glowed red, as with inter- 
nal fire. Only Mont Blanc, afar off, remained purely 
white, in a kind of regal inaccessibility. And, after- 
ward, one star came out over it, and a bright light shone 
from the hut on the Grand Mulets, a rock in the waste 
of snow, where a Frenchman was passing the night on 
his way to the summit. 

Shall I describe the passage of the Tete Noire ? My 
friend, it is twenty-four miles, a road somewhat hilly, 
with splendid views of Mont Blanc in the morning, and 
of the Bernese Oberland range in the afternoon, when 
you descend into Martigny, — a hot place in the dusty 
Rhone Valley, which has a comfortable hotel, with a 
pleasant garden, in which you sit after dinner and let 
the mosquitoes eat you. 

6« 



THE MAN WHO SPEAKS ENGLISH. 

IT was eleven o'clock at night when we reached Sion, 
a dirty little town at the end of the Khone -Valley 
Railway, and got into the omnibus for the hotel ; and it 
was also dark and rainy. They speak German in this 
part of Switzerland, or what is called German. There 
were two very pleasant Americans, who spoke American, 
going on in the diligence at half-past five in the morn- 
ing, on their way over the Simplon. One of them was 
accustomed to speak good, broad English very distinctly 
to all races ; and he seemed to expect that he must be 
understood if he repeated his observations in a louder 
tone, as he always did. I think he would force all this 
country to speak English in two months. We all desired 
to secure places in the dili2;ence, which was likely to be 
full, as is usually the case when a railway discharges itself 
into a post-road. 

We were scarcely in the omnibus, when the gentleman 
said to the conductor : — 

" I want two places in the coupe of the diligence in the 
morning. Can I have them ? " 

" Yah," replied the good-natured German, who didn't 
understand a word. 

" Two places, diligence, coupe, morning. Is it full ? " 

" Yah," replied the accommodating fellow. " Hotel, 
man spik English." 

I suggested the banquette as desirable, if it could be 
obtained, and the German was equally willing to give it 
to us. Descending from the omnibus at the hotel, in a 
66 



THE MAN WHO SPEAKS ENGLISH. 67 

drizzling rain, and amidst a crowd of porters and postil- 
ions and runners, the "man who spoke English " imme- 
diately presented himself; and upon him the American 
pounced with a torrent of questions. He was a willing 
lively little waiter, with his moony face on the top of his 
head ; and he jumped round in the rain like a parchino- 
pea, rolling his head about in the funniest manner. 

The American steadied the little man by the collar 
and began, — ' 

"I want to secure two seats in the coupe of the dili- 
gence in the mornino-," 

" Yaas," jumping l-ound, and looking from one to an- 
other. " Diligence, coupe, morning." 

"I — want — two seats — in — coupe. If I can't get 
them, two — in — banquette." 

" Yaas — banquette, coupe,— yaas, diligence." 

" Do you understand ? Two seats, diligence, Simplon, 
morning. Will you get them ? " 

" Oh, yaas ! morning, diligence. Yaas, sirr." 

" Hang the fellow ! Where is the office ? " And the 
gentleman left the spry little waiter bobbing about in the 
middle of the street, speaking English, but probably com- 
prehending nothing that was said to him. I inquired the 
way to the office of the conductor : it was closed, but 
would soon be open, and I waited; and at length the 
official, a stout Frenchman, appeared, and I secured 
places in the interior, the only ones to be had to Visp. 
1 had seen a diligence at the door with three places in 
tl^ coupe, and one perched behind ; no banquette. The 
office is brightly lighted ; people are waiting to secure 
places; there is the usual crowd of loafers, men and 
women, and the Frenchman sits at his desk. Enter the 
American. 

^ " I want two places in coupe, in the mornino-. Or 
banqi^tte. Two places, diligence." The officiarwaves 
mm off, and says somethintr. 
" What does he say ? " ° 

"He tells you to sit down on that bench till he is 
ready." 



68 THE MAN WHO SPEAKS ENGLISH. 

Soon the Frenchman has run over his big way-bills, and 
turns to us. 

" I want two places in the diligence, coupe," &c., &c., 
says the American. 

This remark being lost on the official, I explain to 
him as well as I can what is wanted, at first, — two places 
in the coupe. 

" One is taken," is his reply. 

" The gentleman will take two," I said, having in mind 
the diligence in the yard, with three places in the coupe. 

" One is taken," be repeats. 

" Then the gentleman will take the other two." 

" One is taken ! " he cries, jumping up and smiting the 
table, — " one is taken, I tell you ! " 

" How many are there in the coupe ? ** 

''Two." 

" Oh ! then the gentleman will take the one remaining 
in the coupe, and the one on top." 

So it is arranged. When I come back to the hotel, the 
Americans are explaining to the lively waiter " who 
speaks English " that they are to go in the diligence at 
half-past five, and that they are to be called at half-past 
four, and have breakfast. He knows all about it, — 
" Diligence, half-past four, breakfast. Oh, yaas ! " While 
I have been at the diligence-office, my companions have 
secured rooms, and gone to them ; and I ask the waiter to 
show me to my room. First, however, I tell him that we 
three, two ladies and myself, who came together, are 
going in the diligence at half-past five, and want to be 
called, and have breakfast. Did he comprehend ? 

" Yaas," rolling his face about on the top of his head 
violently. " You three gentleman want breakfast. What 
you hare ? " 

I had told him before what we would have, and now I 
gave up all hope of keeping our parties separate in his 
mind ; so I said, — 

" Five persons want breakfast at five o'clock. Five 
persons, five hours. Call all of them at half-past four." 



THE MAN WHO SPEAKS ENGLISH. 69 

And T repeated it, and made him repeat it in English 
and French. He then insisted on putting me into the 
room of one of the American gentlemen ; and then he 
knocked at the door of a lady, who cried out in indigna- 
tion at being disturbed ; and, finally, I found my room. 
At the door I reiterated the instructions for the morn- 
ing; and he cheerfully bade me good-night. But he 
almost immediately came back, and poked in his head 
with, — 

" Is you go by de diligence ? " 

" Yes, you stupid." 

In the morning one of our party was called at half-past 
three, and saved the rest of us from a like fate ; and we 
were not aroused at all, but woke time enough to get 
down and find the diligence nearly ready, and no break- 
fast, but " the man who spoke English " as lively as ever. 
And we had a breakfast brought out, so filthy in all re- 
spects that nobody could eat it. Fortunately, there was 
not time to seriously try ; but we paid for it, and departed. 
The two American gentlemen sat in front of the house, 
waiting. The lively waiter had called them at half-past 
three, — for the railway train, instead of the diligence ; 
and they had their wretched breakfast early. They will 
remember the funny adventure with " the man who speaks 
English," and, no doubt, unite with us in warmly com- 
mending the Hotel Lion d'Or at Sion as the nastiest inn 
in Switzerland. 



A WALK TO THE GORNER-GRAT. 

11 THEN one leaves the dusty Rhone Valley, and 
VV turns southward from Visp, he plunges into the 
wildest and most savage part of Switzerland, and pene- 
trates the heart of the Alps. The valley is scarcely 
more than a narrow gorge, with high precipices on 
either side, through which the turbid and rapid Visp 
tears along at a furious rate, boiling and leaping in foam 
over its rocky bed, and nearly as large as the Rhone at 
the junction. From Visp to St. Mcolaus, twelve miles, 
there is only a mule-path, but a very good one, winding- 
along on the slope, sometimes high up, and again de- 
scending to cross the stream, at first by vineyards and 
high stone walls, and then on the edges of precipices, 
but always romantic and wild. It is noon when we set 
out from Visp, in true pilgrim fashion, and the sun is at 
first hot ; but as we slowly rise up the easy ascent, we 
get a breeze, and forget the heat in the varied charms 
of the walk. 

Every thing for the use of the upper valley and 
Zermatt, now a place of considerable resort, must be 
carried by porters, or on horseback ; and we pass or 
meet men and women, sometimes a dozen of them 
together, laboring along under the long, heavy bas- 
kets, broad at the top and coming nearly to a point 
below, which are universally used here for carrying 
every thing. The tubs for transporting water are of the 
same sort. There is no level ground, but every foot is 
cultivated. High up on the sides of the precipices, 

ro 



A WALK TO THE GORNEK-GRAT. 71 

where it seems impossible for a goat to climb, are vine- 
yards and houses, and even villages, hung on slopes, 
nearly up, to the clouds, and with no visible way of com- 
munication with the rest of the world. 

In two hours' time we are at Stalden, a village 
perched upon a rocky promontory, at the junction of the 
valleys of the Saas and the Visp, with a church and 
white tower conspicuous from afar. We climb up to the 
terrace in ^ front of it, on our way into the town. A 
seedy-looking priest is pacing up and down, taking the 
fresh breeze, his broad-brimmed, shabby hat held down 
upon the wall by a big stone. His clothes are worn 
threadbare ; and he looks as thin and poor as a Method- 
ist minister in a stony town at home, on three hundred 
a year. He politely returns our salutation, and we walk 
on. Nearly all the priests in this region look wretch- 
edly poor, — as poor as the people. Through crooked, nar- 
row streets, with houses overhanging and thrusting out 
corners and gables, houses with stables below, and quaint 
carvings and odd little windows above, — the panes of 
glass hexagons, so that the windows looked like sections 
of honeycomb, — we found our way to the inn, a many- 
storied chalet, with stairs on the outside, stone floors in the 
upper passages, and no end of queer rooms ; built right 
in the midst of other houses as odd, decorated with Ger- 
man-text carving, from the windows of which the occu- 
pants could look in upon us, if they had cared to do so ; 
but they did not. They seem little interested in any 
thing ; and no wonder, with their hard fight with Nature. 
Below is a wine-shop, Avith a little side booth, in which 
some German travellers sit drinking their wine, and 
sputtering away in harsh gutturals. The inn is very 
neat inside, and we are well served. Stalden is high ; 
but away above it on the opposite side is a village on 
the steep slope, with a slender white spire that rivals 
some of the snowy needles. Stalden is high, but the 
hill on which it stands is rich in grass. The secret of 
the fertile meadows is the most thorough irrigation. 



72 A WALK TO THE GORNER-GRAT. 

Water is carried along the banks from the river, and dis- 
tributed by numerous sluiceways below; and above the 
little mountain streams are brought where they are 
needed by artificial channels. Old men and women in 
the fields were constantly changing the direction of the 
currents. All the inhabitants appeared to be porters : 
women were transporting on their backs baskets full of 
soil ; hay was being backed to the stables ; burden-bearers 
were coming and going upon the road: we were told 
that there are only three horses in the place. There is 
a pleasant girl who brings us luncheon at the inn ; but 
the inhabitants for the most part are as hideous as those 
we see all day : some have hardly the shape of human 
beings, and they all live in the most filthy manner in the 
dirtiest habitations. A clialet is a sweet thing when you 
buy a little model of it at home. 

After we leave Stalden, the walk becomes more pic- 
turesque, the precipices are higher, the gorges deeper.. It 
required some engineering to carry the footpath round, 
the mountain buttresses and over the ravines. Soon the 
village of Emd appears on the right, — a very considerable 
collection of brown houses, and a shining white church- 
spire, above woods and precipices and apparently un- 
scalable heights, on a green spot which seems painted 
on the precipices; with nothing visible to keep the 
whole from sliding down, down, into the gorge of the 
Visp. Switzerland may not have so much population to 
the square mile as some countries ; but she has a popula- 
tion to some of her square miles that would astonish 
some parts of the earth's surface elsewhere. Farther 
on, we saw a faint, zigzag footpath, that we conjectured 
led to Emd; but it might lead up to heaven. All day 
we had been solicited for charity by squalid little chil- 
dren, who kiss their nasty little paws at us, and ask I'or 
centimes. The children of Emd, however, did not 
trouble us. It must be a serious affair if they ever roll 
out of bed. 

Late in the afternoon thunder besan to tumble about 



A WALK TO THE GORNER-GRAT, 73 

the hills, and clouds snatched away from our sight the 
snow peaks at the end of the valley ; and at length the 
rain fell on those who had just arrived and on the un- 
just. We took refuge from the hardest of it in a lonely 
chalet high up on the hillside, where a roughly-dressed, 
frowzy Swiss, who spoke bad German, and said he was 
a schoolmaster, gave us a bench in the shed of his school- 
room. He had only two pupils in attendance, and I did 
not get a very favorable impression of this high school. 
Its master quite overcame us with thanks when we gave 
him a few centimes on leaving. It still rained, and we 
arrived in St. Nicolaus quite damp. 

There is a decent road from St. Nicolaus to Zermatt, 
over which go wagons without springs. The scenery is 
constantly grander as we ascend. The day is not 
wholly clear ; but high on our right are the vast snow- 
fields of the Weishorn, and out of the very clouds near 
it seems to pour the Bies Glacier, In front are the 
splendid Briethorn, with its white, round summit ; the . 
black Riffelhorn ; the sharp peak of the little Matter- 
horn ; and at last the giant Matterhorn itself rising before 
us, the most finished and impressive single mountain in 
Switzerland. Not so high as Mont Blanc by a thousand 
feet, it appears immense in its isolated position and its 
slender aspiration. It is a huge pillar of rock, with 
sharply-cut edges, rising to a defined point, dusted with 
snow, so that the rock is only here and there revealed. 
To ascend it, seems as impossible as to go up the Column 
of Luxor; and one can believe that the gentlemen who 
first attempted it in 1864, and lost their lives, did fall 
four thousand feet before their bodies rested on the 
glacier below. 

We did not stay at Zermatt, but pushed on for the 
hotel on the top of the Rifielberg, — a very stiff and tire- 
some climb of about three hours, an unending pull up a 
stony footpath. Within an hour of the top, and when 
the white hotel is in sight above the zigzag on the 
breast of the precipice, we reach a green and wide-spread 



74 A WALK TO THE GORNER-GRA T. 

Alp, where hundreds of cows are feeding, watched by- 
two forlorn women, — the " milkmaids all forlorn " of 
poetry. At the rude chalets we stop, and get draughts 
of rich, sweet cream. As we wind up the slope, the 
tinkling of multitudinous bells from the herd comes to 
us, which is also in the domain of poetry. All the way 
up, we have found wild-flowers in the greatest profusion ; 
and the higher we ascend, the more exquisite is their 
color and the more perfect their form. There are pan- 
sies ; gentians of a deeper blue than flower ever was 
before ; forget-me-nots, a pink variety among them ; vio- 
lets, the Alpine rose and the Alpine violet ; delicate pink 
flowers of moss ; harebells ; and quantities for which we 
know no names, more exquisite in shape and color than 
the choicest products of the greenhouse. Large slopes 
are covered with them, — a brilliant show to the eye, and 
most pleasantly beguiling the way of its tediousness. 
As high as I ascended, I still found some of these delicate 
flowers, the pink moss growing in profusion amongst the 
rocks of the Gorner-Grat, and close to the snow-drifts. 

The inn on the Eiffelberg is nearly eight thousand 
feet high, — almost two thousand feet above the hut on 
Mount Washington ; yet it is not so cold and desolate as 
the latter. Grass grows and flowers bloom on its smooth 
upland, and behind it and in front of it are the snow- 
peaks. That evening we essayed the Gorner-Grat, a 
rocky ledge nearly ten thousand feet above the level of 
the sea ; but after a climb of an hour and a half, and a 
good view of Monte Rosa and the glaciers and peaks of 
that range, we were prevented from reaching the sum- 
mit, and driven back by a sharp storm of hail and rain. 
Tlie next morning I started for the Gorner-Grat again, 
at four o'clock. The Matterhorn lifted its huge bulk 
sharply against the sky, except where fleecy clouds 
lightly draped it and fantastically blew about it. As I 
ascended, and turned to look at it, its beautifully-cut 
peak had caught the first ray of the sun, and burned 
with a rosy glow. Some great clouds drifted high in 



A WALK TO THE GORNER-GRAT. 75 

the air : the summits of the Breithorn, the Lyscamm, 
and their companions, lay cold and white ; but the snow 
down their sides had a tinge of pink. When I stood 
upon the summit of the Gorner-Grat, the two prominent 
silver peaks of Monte Rosa were just touched with the 
sun, and its great snow-fields were visible to the glacier 
at its base. The Gorner-Grat is a rounded ridge of 
rock, entirely encircled by glaciers and snow-peaks. 
The panorama from it is unexcelled in Switzerland. 

Returning down the rocky steep, I descried, solitary 
in that great waste of rock and snow, the form of a lady 
whom I supposed I had left sleeping at the inn, over- 
come with the fatigue of yesterday's tramp. Lured on 
by the apparently short distance to the back-bone of the 
ridge, she had climbed the rocks a mile or more above 
the hotel, and come to meet me. She also had seen the 
great peaks lift themselves out of the gray dawn, and 
Monte Rosa catch the first rays. We stood a while 
together to see how jocund day ran hither and thither 
along the mountain-tops, until the light was all abroad, 
and then silently turned downward, as one goes from a 
mount of devotion. 



THE BATHS OF LEUK. 

IN order to make the pass of the Gemmi, it is necessary 
to go through the Baths of Leuk. The ascent from 
the Rhone bridge at Susten is full of interest, affording 
fine views of the valley, which is better to look at than 
to travel through, and bringing you almost immediately 
to the old town of Leuk, a queer, old, towered place, 
perched on a precipice, with the oddest inn, and a notice 
posted up to the effect, that any one who drives through 
its steep streets faster than a walk will be fined five 
francs. I paid nothing extra for a fast walk. The road, 
which is one of the best in the country, is a wonderful 
piece of engineering, spanning streams, cut in rock, 
rounding precipices, following the wild valley of the 
Dala by many a winding and zigzag. 

The Baths of Leuk, or Loeche-les-Bains, or Leuker- 
bad, is a little village at the very head of the valley, 
over four thousand feet above the sea, and overhung by 
the perpendicular walls of the Gemmi which rise on all 
sides, except the south, on an average of two thousand 
feet above it. There is a nest of brown houses, clus- 
tered together like bee-hives, into which the few inhabit- 
ants creep to hibernate in the long winters, and several 
shops, grand hotels, and bathing-houses open for the 
season. Innumerable springs issue out of this green, 
sloping meadow among the mountains, some of them 
icy cold, but over twenty of them hot, and seasoned 
with a great many disagreeable sulphates, carbonates, 
and oxides, and varying in temperature from ninety-five 
76 



THE BATHS OF LEUK. 77 

to one hundred and twenty-three degrees Fahrenheit. 
Italians, French, and Swiss resort here in great numbers 
to take the baths, which are supposed to be very effica- 
cious for rheumatism and cutaneous affections. Doubt- 
less many of them do up their bathing for the year while 
here ; and they may need no more after scalding and 
soaking in this water for a couple of months. 

Before we reached the hotel, we turned aside into one 
of the ba,th-houses. We stood inhaling a sickly steam 
in a large, close hall, which was wholly occupied by a 
huge vat, across which low partitions, with bridges, ran, 
dividing it into four compartments. When we entered, 
we were assailed with yells, in many languages, and 
howls in the common tongue, as if all the fiends of the 
pit had broken loose. We took off our hats in obedience 
to the demand ; but the clamor did not wholly subside, 
and was mingled with singing and horrible laughter. 
Floating about in each vat, we at first saw twenty or 
thirty human heads. The women could be distinguished 
from the men by the manner of dressing the hair. Each 
wore a loose woollen gown. Each had a little table 
floating before him or her, which he or she pushed about 
at pleasure. One wore a hideous mask ; another kept 
diving in the opaque pool and coming up to blow, like 
the hippopotamus in the Zoological Gardens ; some were 
taking a lunch from their tables, others playing chess ; 
some sitting on the benches round the edges, with only 
heads out of water, as doleful as owls, while others 
roamed about, engaged in the game of spattering with 
their comrades, and sang and shouted at the top of their 
voices. The people in this bath were said to be second 
class ; but they looked as well and behaved better than 
those of the first class, whom we saw in the establish- 
ment at our hotel afterward. 

It may be a valuable scientific fact, that the water in 
these vats, in which people of all sexes, all diseases, and 
all nations spend so many hours of the twenty-four, is 
changed once a day. The temperature at which the 



78 THE BATHS OF LEUK. 

batli is given is ninety-eight. The water is let in at 
night, and allowed to cool. At five in the morning, the 
bathers enter it, and remain until ten o'clock, — five hours, 
having breakfast served to them on the floating tables, 
" as they sail, as they sail." They then have a respite 
till two, and go in till five. Eight hours in hot water ! 
Nothing can be more disgusting than the sight of these 
baths. Gustave Dore must have learned here how to 
make those ghostly pictures of the lost floating about in 
the Stygian pools, in his illustrations of the Inferno ; 
and the rocks and cavernous precipice's may have enabled 
him to complete the picture. On what, principle cm?es 
are eifected in these filthy vats, I could not learn. I 
have a theory, that, where so many diseases meet and 
mingle in one swashing fluid, they neutralize each other. 
It may be that the action is that happily explained by 
one of the Hibernian bathmen in an American water- 
cure establishment. " You see, sir," said Jie, " that the 
shock of the water unites with the electricity of the sys- 
tem, and explodes the disease." I should think that' 
the shock to one's feeling of decency and cleanliness, at 
these baths, would explod'e any disease in Europe. But, 
whatever the result may be, I am not sorry to see so 
many French and Italians soak themselves once a year. 
Out of the bath these people seem to enjoy_ life. 
There is a long promenade, shaded and picturesque, 
which they take at evening, sometimes as far as the Lad- 
ders, eight of which are fastened, in a shackling manner, 
to the perpendicular rocks, — a high and somewhat dan- 
gerous ascent to the village of Albinen, but undertaken 
constantly by peasants with baskets on their backs. It 
is in winter the only mode Leukerbad has of communi- 
cating with the world ; and in summer it is the only way 
of reaching Albinen, except by a long journey down the 
Dala and up ancTther valley and height. The bathers 
were certainly very lively and social at table-d'hote, 
where we had the pleasure of meeting some hundred of 
tliem, dressed. It was presumed that the baths were the 



THE BATHS OF LEUK. 79 

subject of tlie entertaining conversation ; for I read in a 
charminor little work which sets forth the delights of 
Leuk, that La poussee forms the staple of most of the 
talk. La poussee, or, as this book poetically calls it, 
" that daughter of the waters of Loeche," — "that eruption 
of which we have already spoken, and which .proves the 
action of the baths upon the skin," — becomes the object, 
and often the end, of all conversation. And it gives 
specimens of this pleasant. eon verse, as : — 

" Comment va vptre .poussee ? " 

" Avez-vous la p6ussee ? " 

" Je suis en pleine poussee ! " 

"Ma poussee s'est fort bien passee ! " 

Indeed, says this €!titertaining tract, sans poussee, one 
wbuld not be able to hold, at table or in the salon, with 
a neighbor of either sex, the least conversation. Fur- 
ther, it is by "grace a la poussee" that one arrives at 
those intimacies which are the characteristics of the baths. 
Blessed, then, be La poussee, which renders possible such 
a high society and such select and entertaining conver- 
sation ! >Long may the bathers of Leuk live to soak and 
converse ! In-'the morning, when we departed for the 
ascent of the Gemmi, we passed one of the bathing- 
houses. 1 fancied that a hot steam issued out of the 
crevices ; from within came a discord of singing and 
caterwauling ; and, as a door swung open, I saw that the 
heads floating about on the turbid tide were eating 
breakfast from the swimming tables. 



OVER THE GEMMI. 

I SPENT some time, the evening before, studying the 
face of the cliff we were to ascend, to discover the 
path; but I could only trace its zigzag beginning. 
When we came to the base of the rock, we found a way 
cut, a narrow path, most of the distance hewn out of the 
rock, winding upward along the face of the precipice. 
The view, as one rises, is of the break-neck description. 
The way is really safe enough, even on mule-back, as- 
cending ; but one would be foolhardy to ride down. We 
met a lady on the summit who was about to be carried 
down on a chair ; and she seemed quite to like the mode 
of conveyance : she had harnessed her husband in tem- 
porarily for one of the bearers, which made it still more 
jolly for her. When we started, a cloud of mist hung 
over the edge of the rocks. As we rose, it descended 
to meet us, and sunk below, hiding the valley and its 
houses, which had looked like Swiss toys from our height. 
When we reached the summit, the mist came boiling up 
after us, rising like a thick wall to the sky, and hiding 
all that great mountain range, the Vallais Alps, from 
which we had come, and which we hoped to see from 
this point. Fortunately, there were no clouds on the 
other side, and we looked down into a magnificent rocky 
basin, encircled by broken and over-topping crags and 
snow-fields, at the bottom of which was a green lake. 
It is one of the wildest of scenes. 

An hour from the summit, we came to a green Alp, 
where a herd of cows were feeding ; and in the midst of 
80 



OVER THE GEMMI. 8i 

it were three or four dirty chalets, where pigs, chickens, 
cattle, and animals constructed very much like human 
beings, lived ; yet I have nothing to say against these 
chalets, for we had excellent cream there. We had, on 
the way down, fine views of the snowy Altels, the Rinder- 
horn, the Finster-Aarhorn, — a deep valley which enor- 
mous precipices guard, but which avalanches nevertheless 
invade, — and, farther on, of the Bllimlisalp, with its sum- 
mit of crystalline whiteness. The descent to Kandersteg 
is very rapid, and in a rain slippery. This village is a 
resort for artists for its splendid views of the range we 
had crossed: it stands at the gate of the mountains. 
From there to the Lake of Thun is a delightful drive, — 
a rich country, with handsome cottages and a charming 
landscape, even if the pyramidal Niesen did not lift up 
its seven thousand feet on the edge of the lake. So, 
through a smiling land, and in the sunshine after the 
rain, we come to Spiez, and find ourselves at a little 
hotel on the slope, overlooking town and lake and moun- 
tains. 

^ Spiez is not large : indeed, its few houses are nearly all 
picturesquely grouped upon a narrow rib of land which 
is thrust into the lake on purpose to make the loveliest 
picture in the world. There is the old castle, with its 
many slim spires and its square-peaked roofed tower ; 
the slender-steepled church; a fringe of old houses below 
on the lake, one overhanging towards the point ; and the 
promontory, finished by a willow drooping to the water. 
Beyond, in hazy light, over the lucid green of the lake, 
are mountains whose masses of rock seem soft and sculp- 
tured. To the right, at the foot of the lake, tower the 
great snow mountains, — the cone of the Schreckhorn, 
the square top of the Eiger, the Jungfrau, just shoving 
over the hills, and the Blumlisalp rising into heaven clear 
and silvery. 

What can one do in such a spot, but swim in the lake, 
lie on the shore, and watch the passing steamers and the 
changing light on the mountains ? Down at the wharf, 



82 OVER THE GEM MI. 

when the small boats put off for the steamer, one can 
well entertain himself. The small boat is an enormous 
thing, after all, and propelled by two long, heavy sweeps, 
one of which is pulled, and the other pushed. The labor- 
ing oar is, of course, pulled by a woman ; while her hus- 
band stands up in the stern of the boat, and gently dips 
the other in a gallant fashion. There is a boy there, 
whom I cannot make out, — a short, square boy, with tas- 
selled skull-cap, and a face that never changes its expres- 
sion, and never has any expression to change ; he may 
be older than these hills ; he looks old enough to be his 
own father : and there is a girl, his counterpart, who 
might be, judging her age by her face, the mother of 
both of them. These solemn old-young people are quite 
busy doing nothing about the wharf, and appear to be 
afflicted with an undue sense of the responsibility of 
life. There is a beer-garden here, where several sober 
couples sit seriously drinking their beer. There are 
some horrid old women, with the parchment skin and 
the disagreeable necks. Alone, in a window of the cas- 
tle, sits a lady at her work, who might be the countess ; 
only, I am sorry, there is no countess, nothing but a 
frau, in that old feudal dwelling. And there is a for- 
eigner, thinking how queer it all is. And, while he sits 
there, the melodious bell in the church-tower rings its 
evening sons;. 



BAVARIA. 



AMERICAN IMPATIENCE. 

"TTTE left Switzerland, as we entered it, in a rain, — 
VV a kind of double baptism that may have been 
necessary, and was certainly not too heavy a price to 
pay for the privileges of the wonderful country. The 
wind blew freshly, and swept a shower over the deck of 
the little steamboat, on board of which we stepped from 
the shabby little pier and town of Romanshorn. After 
the other Swiss lakes, Constance is tame, except at the 
southern end, beyond which rise the Appenzell range 
and the wooded peaks of the Bavarian hills. Through 
the dash of rain, and under the promise of a magnificent 
rainbow, — rainbows don't mean any thing in Switzer- 
land, and have no office as weather-prophets, except to 
assure you, that, as it rains to-day, so it will rain to-mor- 
row, — we skirted the lower bend of the lake, and at twi- 
light sailed into the little harbor of Lindau, through the 
narrow entrance between the piers, on one of which is a 
small lighthouse, and on the other sits upright a gigantic 
stone lion, — a fine enough figure of a Bavarian lion, but 
with a comical, wide-awake, and expectant expression of 
countenance, as if he might bark right out at any minute, 
and become a dog. Yet in the moonlight, shortly after- 
ward, the lion looked very grand and stately, as he sat 
regarding the softly-plashing waves, and the high, drift- 
ing clouds, and the old Roman tower by the bridge, 
which connects the Island of Lindau with the mainland, 
and thinking perhaps, if stone lions ever do think, of 
the time when Roman galleys sailed on Lake Constance^ 

85 



86 AMERICAN IMP A TIENCE. 

and when Lindau was an imperial town with a thriying 
trade. 

On board the little steamer was an American, accom- 
panied by two ladies, and travelling, I thought, for their 
gratification, who was very anxious to get on faster than 
he was able to do, — though why any one should desire to 
go fast in Europe I do not know. One easily falls into 
the habit of the country, — to take things easily, to go 
wlien the slow German fates will, and not to worry one's 
self beforehand about times and connections. But the 
American was in a fever of impatience, desirous, if possi- 
ble, to get on that night. I knew he was from the Land 
of the Free by a phrase I heard him use in the cars : he 
said, " I'll bet a dollar." Yet I must flatter myself that 
Americans do not always thus betray themselves. I 
happened, on the Isle of Wight, to hear a bland land- 
lord " blow up " his glib-tongued son because the latter 
had not driven a stiffer bargain with us for the hire of a 
carriage round the island. 

" Didn't you know they were Americans ? " asks the 
irate father. " I knew it at once." 

" No," replies young hopeful : " they didn't say guess 
once." 

And straightway the fawning innkeeper returns to 
us, professing, with his butter-lips, the greatest admira- 
tion of all Americans, and the intensest anxiety to serve 
them, and all for pure good-will. The English are even 
more bloodthirsty at sight of a traveller than the Swiss, 
and twice as obsequious. But to return to our Ameri- 
can. He had all the railway-time tables that he could 
procure ; and he was busily studying them, with the de- 
sign of " getting on." I heard him say to his compan- 
ions, as he ransacked his pockets, that he was a mass of 
hotel- bills and time-tables. He confided to me after- 
ward, that his wife and her friend had got it into their 
heads that they must go both to Vienna and Berlin. 
Was Berlin much out of the way in going from Vienna 
to Paris ? He said they told him it wasn't. At any 



AMERICAN IMPATIENCE. 87 

rate, he must get round at such a date : he had no time 
to spare. Then, besides the slowness of getting on, 
there were the trunks. He lost a trunk in Switzerland, 
and consumed a whole day in looking it up. While the 
steamboat lay at the wharf at Rorschach, two stout por- 
ters came on board, and shouldered his baggage to take 
it ashore. To his remonstrances in English they paid 
no heed ; and it was some time before they could be 
made to understand that the trunks were to go on to 
Lindau. " There," said he, " I should have lost my 
trunks. Nobody understands what I tell them : I can't 
get any information." Especially was he unable to get 
any information as to how to " get on." I confess that 
the restless American almost put me into a fidget, and 
revived the American desire to " get on," to take the 
fast trains, make all the connections, — in short, in the 
handsome language of the great West, to " put her 
through." When I last saw our traveller, he was getting 
his luggage through the custom-house, still undecided 
whether to push on that night at eleven o'clock. But I 
forgot all about him and his hurry, when, shortly after, 
we sat at the table-dliote at the hotel, and the sedate 
Germans lit their cigars, some of them before they had 
finished eating, and sat smoking as if there were plenty 
of leisure for every thing in this world. 



A CITY OF COLOR. 

AFTEB, a slow ride, of nearly eight hours, in what, 
in Germany, is called an express train, through a 
rain and clouds that hid from our view the Tyrol and 
the Swabian mountains, over a rolling, pleasant country, 
past pretty little railway station-houses, covered with 
vines, gay with flowers in the windows, and surrounded 
with beds of flowers, past switchmen in flaming scarlet 
jackets, who stand at the switches and raise the hand to 
the temple, and keep it there, in a military salute, as we 
go by, we come into old Augsburg, whose Confession is 
not so fresh in our minds as it ought to be. Portions of 
the ancient wall remain, and many of the towers ; and 
there are archways, picturesquely opening from street to 
street, under several of which we drive on our way to the 
Three Moors, a stately hostelry and one of the oldest in 
Germany. 

It stood here in the year 1500 ; and the room is still 
shown, unchanged since then, in which thp rich Count 
Fugger entertained Charles V. The chambers are 
nearly all immense. That in which we are lodged is 
large enough for Queen Victoria ; indeed, I am glad to 
say that her sleeping-room at St. Cloud was not half so 
spacious. One feels either like a count, or very lone- 
some, to sit down in a lofty chamber, say thirty-five feet 
square, with little furniture, and historical and tragical 
lile-size figures staring at one from the wall-paper. One 
fears that they may come down in the deep night, 
88 



A CITY OF COLOR. 89 

and stand at the bedside, — those narrow, canopied beds 
there in the distance, like the marble couches in the 
cathedral. It must be a fearful thing to be a royal per- 
son, and dwell in a palace, with resounding rooms and 
naked, waxed, inlaid floors. At the Three Moors one 
sees a visitors' book, begun in 1800, which contains the 
names of many noble and great people, as well as poets 
and doctors and titled ladies, and much sentimental 
writino- in French. It is my impression, from an in- 
spection of the book, that we are the first untitled 
visitors. 

The traveller cannot but like Augsburg at once, for its 
quaint houses, colored so diversely and yet harmoniously. 
Remains of its former brilliancy yet exist -in the frescos 
on the outside of the buildings, some of which are still 
bright in color, though partially defaced. Those on the 
House of Fugger have been restored,- and are very brave 
pictures. These frescos give great animation and life 
to the appearance of a street, and I am glad to see a 
taste for them reviving. Augsburg must have been very 
gay with them two and three hundred years ago, when, 
also, it was the home of beautiful women of the middle 
class, who married princes. We went to see the house 
in which lived the beautiful Agnes Bernauer, daughter 
of a barber, who married Duke Albert III., of Bavaria. 
The house was nought, as old Samuel Pepys would say, 
only a high stone building, in a block of such ; but it is 
enough to make a house attractive for centuries if a 
pretty woman once looks out of its latticed windows, as 
1 have no doubt Agnes often did when the duke and his 
retinue rode by in clanking armor. 

But there is no lack of reminders of old times. The 
cathedral, which was begun before the Christian era 
could express its age with four figures, has two fine por- 
tals, with quaint carving, and bronze doors of very old 
work, whereon the story of Eve and the serpent is liter- 
ally given, — a representation of great theological, if of 
small artistic value. And there is the old clock and 



90 A CITY OF COLOR. 

watch tower, which for eight hundred years has enabled 
the Augsburgers to keep the time of day and to look 
out over the plain for the approach of an enemy. The 
city is full of fine bronze fountains, some of them of very 
elaborate design, and adding a convenience and a beauty 
to the town which American cities wholly want. In one 
quarter of the town is the Fuggerei, a little city by 
itself, surrounded by its own wall, the gates of which 
are shut at night, with narrow streets and neat little 
houses. It was built by Hans Jacob Fugger the Rich, 
as long ago as 1519, and is still inhabitated by indigent 
Rom an- Catholic families, according to the intention of 
its founder. In the windows were lovely flowers. I saw 
in the street several of those mysterious, short, old 
women, — so old and yet so little, all body and hardly any 
legs, who appear to have grown down into the ground 
with advancing years. 

It happened to be a rainy day, and cold, on the 30th 
of July, when we left Augsburg; and the flat fields 
through which we passed were uninviting under the 
gray light. Large flocks of geese were feeding on the 
windy plains, tended by boys and women, who are 
the living fences of this country. I no longer wonder at 
the number of feather-beds at the inns, under which we 
are apparently expected to sleep even in the warmest 
nights. Shepherds with the regulation crooks, also were 
watching herds of sheep. Here and there a cluster of 
red-rooted houses were huddled together into a village, 
and in all directions rose tapering spires. Especially we 
marked the steeple of Blenheim, where Jack Churchill 
won the name for his magnificent country-seat, early in 
the last century. All this plain where the silly geese 
feed has been marched over and fought over by armies 
time and again. We effect the passage of the Danube 
without difficulty, and on to Harburg, a little town of 
little red houses, inhabited principally by Jews, huddled 
under a rocky ridge, upon the summit of which is a pic- 
turesque mediasval castle, with many towers and turrets, 



A CITY OF COLOR. 91 

in as perfect preservation as when feudal flags floated 
over it. And so on, slowly, with long stops at many sta- 
tions, to give opportunity, I suppose, for the honest pas- 
sengers to idk.Q in supplies of beer and sausages, to 
Nuremberg. 



A CITY LIVING ON THE PAST. 

""VrUKEMBERG, or Nurnberg, was built, I believe, 
-LX about the beginning of time. At least, in an old 
black-letter history of the city which I have seen, illus- 
trated with powerful wood-cuts, the first representation 
is that of the creation of the world, which is immediately 
followed by another of Nuremberg. No one who visits 
it is likely to dispute its antiquity." " Nobody ever goes 
to Nuremberg but Americans," said a cynical British 
officer at Chamouny ; " but they always go there. I 
never saw an American who hadn't been or was not 
going to Nuremberg." Well, I suppose they wish to see 
the oldest-looking, and, next to a true Briton on his 
travels, the oddest thing on the Continent. The city lives 
in the past still, and on its memories, keeping its old 
walls and moat entire, and nearly fourscore waTl-towers, 
in stern array. But grass grows in the moat, fruit-trees 
thrive there, and vines clamber on the walls. One wan- 
ders about in the queer streets with the feeling of beino- 
transported back to the Middle Ages ; but it is difficult 
to reproduce the impression on paper. Who can describe 
the narrow and intricate ways; the odd houses with 
many little gables; great roofs breaking out from eaves 
to ridgepole, with dozens of dormer-windows ; hanging 
balconies of stone, carved and figure-beset, ornamented 
and fi:escoed fronts; the archways, leading into queer 
courts and alleys, and out again into broad "streets ; the 
towers and fantastic steeples ; and the many old bridges, 
with obelisks and memorials of triumphal entries of con- 
querors and princes ? 
92 



A CITY LIVING ON THE PAST. 93 

The city, as I said, lives upon the memory of what it 
has been, and trades upon relics of its former fame. 
What it would have been without Albrecht Diirer, and 
Adam Kraft the stone-mason, and Peter Vischer the 
bronze-worker, and Viet Stoss who carved in wood, and 
Hans Sachs the shoemaker and poet-minstrel, it is diffi- 
cult to say. Their statues are set up in the streets ; their 
works still live in the churches and city buildings, — pic- 
tures, and groups in stone and wood ; and their statues, 
in all sorts of carving, are reproduced, big and little, in all 
the shop-windows, for sale. So, literally, the city is full 
of the memory of them ; and the business of the city, 
aside from its manufactory of endless, curious toys, seems 
to consist in reproducing them and their immortal works 
to sell to strangers. 

Other cities project new things, and grow with a 
modern impetus : Nuremberg lives in the past, and traf- 
fics on its ancient reputation. Of course, we went to see 
the houses where these old worthies lived, and the works 
of art they have left behind them, — things seen and 
described by everybody. The stone carving about the 
church-portals and on side buttresses is inexpressibly 
quaint and naive. The subjects are sacred ; and with the 
sacred is mingled the comic, here as at Augsburg, where 
over one portal of the cathedral, with saints and angels, 
monkeys climb and gibber. A favorite subject is that 
of our Lord praying in the Garden, while the apostles, 
who could not watch one hour, are sleeping in various 
attitudes of stony comicality. All the stone-cutters seem 
to have tried their chisels on this group, and there are 
dozens of them. The wise and foolish virgins also stand 
at the church-doors in time-stained stone, — the one 
with a perked-up air of conscious virtue, and the other 
with a penitent dejection that seems to merit better treat- 
ment. Over the great portal of St. Lawrence — a mag- 
nificent structure, with lofty twin spires and glorious 
rose-window — is carved " The Last Judgment." Un- 
derneath, the dead are climbing out of their stone coffins ; 



94 A CITY LIVING ON THE PAST 

above sits the Judge, with the attending angels. On 
the right hand go away the stiff, prim saints, in flowing 
robes, and with palms and harps, up steps into heaven, 
through a narrow door which St. Peter opens for them ; 
while on the left depart the wicked, with wry faces and 
distorted forms, down into the stone flames, towards 
which the Devil is dragging them by their stony hair. 

The interior of the Church of St. Lawrence is richer 
than any other I remember, with its magnificent pil- 
lars of dark red stone, rising and foliating out to form 
the roof; its splendid windows of stained glass, glowing 
with sacred story ; a high gallery of stone entirely round 
the choir, and beautiful statuary on every column. Here, 
too, is the famous Sacrament House of honest old Adam 
Kraft, the most exquisite thing I ever saw in stone. The 
color is light gray ; and it rises beside one of the dark, 
massive pillars, sixty-four feet, growing to a point, which 
then strikes the arch of the roof, and there curls up like 
a vine to avoid it. The base is supported by the kneel- 
ing figures of Adam Kraft and two fellow-workmen, who 
labored on it for four years. Above is the Last Supper, 
Christ blessing little children, and other beautiful tableaux 
in stone. The Gothic spire grows up and around these, 
now and then throwing out graceful tendrils, like a vine, 
and seeming to be rather a living plant than inanimate 
stone. The faithful artist evidently had this feeling for 
it ; for, as it grew under his hands, he found that it would 
strike the roof, or he must sacrifice something of its grace- 
ful proportion. So his loving and daring genius sug- 
gested the happy design of letting it grow to its curving, 
graceful completeness. 

He who travels by a German railway needs patience 
and a full haversack. Time is of no value. The rate of 
speed of the trains is so slow, that one sometimes has a 
desire to get out and walk, and the stoppages at the sta- 
tions seem eternal ; but then we must remember that it 
is a long distance to the bottom of a great mug of beer. 
We left Lindau on one of the usual trains at half-past 



A CITY LIVING ON THE PAST, 95 

five in the morning, and reached Augsburg at one o'clock 
in the afternoon : the distance cannot be more than a 
hundred miles. That is quicker than by diligence, and 
one has leisure to see the country as he jogs along. 
There is nothing more sedate than a German train in 
motion; nothing can stand so dead still as a German 
train at a station. But there are express trains. We 
were on one from Augsburg to Nuremberg, and I think 
must have run twenty miles an hour. The fare on the 
express trains is one-fifth higher than on the others. 
The cars are all comfortable ; and the officials, who wear 
a good deal of uniform, are much more civil and obliging 
than officials in a country where they do not wear uni- 
form. So, not swiftly, but safely and in good-humor, we 
rode to the capital of Bavaria. 



OUTSIDE ASPECTS OF MUNICH. 

I SAW yesterday, on tlie 31st of August, in the 
Englisli Garden, dead leaves whirling down to the 
ground, a too evident sign that the summer weather is 
going. Indeed, it has been sour, chilly weather for a 
week now, raining a little every day, and with a very 
autumn feeling in the air. The nightly concerts in the 
beer-gardens must have shivering listeners, if the bands 
do not, as many of them do, play within doors. The 
line of droschke drivers, in front of the post-office colon- 
nade, hide the red facings of their coats under long over- 
coats, and stand in cold expectancy beside their blanketed 
horses, which must need twice the quantity of black- 
bread in this chilly air ; for the horses here eat bread, 
like people. I see the drivers every day slicing up the 
black loaves, and feeding them, taking now and then a 
mouthful themselves, wetting it down with a pull from 
the mug of beer that stands within reach. And lastly (I 
am still speaking of the weather), the gay military offi- 
cers come abroad in long cloaks, to some extent conceal- 
ing their manly forms and smart uniforms, which I am 
sure they would not do, except under the pressure of 
necessity. 

Yet I think this raw weather is not to continue. It is 
only a rough visit from the Tyrol, which will give place 
to kinder influences. We came up here from hot Swit- 
zerland at the end of July, expecting to find Munich a 
furnace. It will be dreadful in Munich, everybody said. 
So we left Luzerne, where it was warm, not daring to 
96 



OUTSIDE ASPECTS OF MUNICH. 97 

stay till the expected rival sun, Victoria of England, 
should make the heat overpowering. But the first week 
of August in Munich it was delicious weather, — clear, 
sparkling, bracing air, with no chill in it and no languor 
in it, just as you would say it ought to be on a high, 
gravelly plain, seventeen hundred feet above the sea. 
Then came a week of what the Miincheners call hot 
weather, with the thermometer up to eighty degrees 
Fahrenheit, and the white wide streets and gray build- 
ino-s in a g-lare of lisfht ; since then, weather of the most 
uncertain sort. 

Munich needs the sunlight. Not that it cannot better 
spare it than grimy London ; for its prevailing color is 
light gray, and its many-tinted and frescoed fronts go far 
to relieve the most cheerless day. Yet Munich attempts 
to be an architectural reproduction of classic times ; and, 
in order to achieve any success in this direction, it is 
necessary to have the blue heavens and golden sunshine 
of Greece. The old portion of the city has some remains 
of the Gothic, and abounds in archways and rambling 
alleys, that suddenly become broad streets, and then again 
contract to the width of an alderman, and portions of 
the old wall and city gates ; old feudal towers stand in 
the market-place, and faded frescos on old clock-faces 
and over archways speak of other days of splendor. 

But the Munich of to-day is as if built to order, — raised 
in a day by the command of one man. It was the old 
Kino; Ludwio; I whose flower-wreathed bust stands in 
these days in the vestibule of the Glyptothek, in token 
of his recent death, who gave the impulse for all this, 
though some of the best buildings and streets in the city 
have been completed by his successors. The new city is 
laid out on a magnificent scale of distances, with wide 
streets, fine, open squares, plenty of room for gardens, 
both public and private ; and the art buildings and art 
monuments are well distributed ; in fact, many a stately 
building stands in such isolation that it seems to ask 
every passer what it was put there for. Then, again, 



98 OUTSIDE ASPECTS OF MUNICH. 

some of the new adornments lack fitness of location or 
purpose. At the end of the broad, monotonous Ludwig 
Strasse, and yet not at the end, for the road runs straight 
on into the flat country between rows of slender trees, 
stands the Siegesthor, or Gate of Victory, an imitation 
of the Constantine arch at Rome. It is surmounted by a 
splendid group in bronze, by Schwanthaler, — Bavaria in 
her war-chariot, drawn by four lions ; and it is in itself, 
both in its proportions and its numerous sculptural figures 
and bas-reliefs, a fine recognition of the valor " of the 
Bavarian army," to whom it is erected. Yet it is so 
dwarfed by its situation, that it seems to have been placed 
in the middle of the street as an obstruction. A walk 
runs on each side of it. The Propylaeum, another mag- 
nificent gateway, thrown across the handsome Brienner 
Strasse, beyond the Glyptothek, is an imitation of that on 
the Acropolis at Athens. It has fine Doric columns on 
the outside, and Ionic within, and the pediment groups 
are bas-reliefs, by Schwanthaler, representing scenes in 
modern Greek history. The passage-ways for carriages 
are through the side arches ; and thus the '' sidewalk " 
runs into the centre of the street, and foot-passers must 
twice cross the carriage-drive in going through the gate. 
Such things as these give one the feeling that art has 
been forced beyond use in Munich ; and it is increased 
when one wanders through the new churches, palaces, 
galleries, and finds frescos so prodigally crowded out of 
the way, and only occasionally-opened rooms so over- 
loaded with them, and not always of the best, as to sacri- 
fice all effect, and leave one with the sense that some 
demon of unrest has driven painters and sculptors and 
plasterers, night and day, to adorn the eity at a stroke ; 
at least, to cover it with paint and bedeck it with mar- 
bles, and to do it at once, leaving nothing for the sweet 
growth and blossoming of time. 

You see, it is easy to grumble, and especially in a 
cheerful, open, light, and smiling city, crammed with 
works of art, ancient and modern, its architecture a 



OUTSIDE ASPECTS OF MUNICH. 99 

study of all styles, and its foaming beer, said by anti- 
quarians to be a good deal better than the mead drunk 
in Odin's halls, only seven and a half kreuzers the 
quart. Munich has so much, that it, of course, contains 
much that can be criticised. The long, wide Ludwig 
Strasse is a street of palaces, — a street built up by the old 
king, and regarded by him with great pride. But all 
the buildings are in the Romanesque style, — a repetition 
of one another to a monotonous degree : only at the 
lower end are there any shops or shop-windows, and a 
more dreary promenade need not be imagined. It has 
neither shade nor fountains ; and on a hot day you can 
see how the sun would pour into it, and blind the passers. 
But few ever walk there at any time. A street that 
leads nowhere, and has no gay windows, does not attract. 
Toward the lower end, in the Odeon Platz, is the eques- 
trian statue of Ludwig, a royally commanding figure, 
with a page on either side. The street is closed (so 
that it flows off on either side into streets of handsome 
shops) by the Feldherrnhalle, Hall of the Generals, an 
imitation of the beautiful Loggia dei Lanzi, at Florence, 
that as yet contains only two statues, which seem lost 
in it. Here at noon, with parade of infantry, comes a 
military band to play for half an hour ; and there are 
always plenty of idlers to listen to them. In the high 
arcade a colony of doves is domesticated; and I like to 
watch them circling about and wheeling round the spires 
of the over-decorated Theatine church opposite, and 
perching on the heads of the statues on the fa9ade. 

The royal palace, near by, is a huddle of buildings 
and courts, that I think nobody can describe or under- 
stand, built at different times and in imitation of many 
styles. The front, toward the Hof Garden, a grassless 
square of small trees, with open arcades on two sides for 
shops, and partially decorated with frescos of land- 
scapes and historical subjects, is " a building of festive 
halls," a fa9ade eight hundred feet long, in the revived 
Italian style, and with a fine Ionic porch. The color is 



loo OUTSIDE ASPECTS OF MUNICH. 

the royal, dirty yellow. On tlie Max Joseph Plat?, 
which has a bronze statue of King Max, a seated figure, 
and some elaborate bas-reliefs, is another front of the 
palace, the Konigsbau, an imitation, not fully carried 
out, of the Pitti Palace, at Florence. Between these is 
the old Residenz, adorned with fountain groups and 
statues in bronze. On another side are the church and 
theatre of the Residenz. The interior of this court 
chapel is dazzling in appearance : the pillars are, I 
think, imitation of variegated marble ; the sides are imi- 
tation of the same ; the vaulting is covered with rich fres- 
cos on gold ground. The whole effect is rich, but it is 
not at all sacred. Indeed, there is no church in Munich, 
except the old cathedral, the Frauenkirche, with its 
high Gothic arches, stained windows, and dusty old carv- 
ings, that gives one at all the sort of feeling that it is 
supposed a church should give. The court chapel in- 
terior is boastingly said to resemble St. Mark's, in Venice. 
You see how far imitation of the classic and Italian is 
carried here in Munich ; so, as I said, the buildings need 
the southern sunlight. Fortunately, they get the right 
quality much of the time. The Glyptothck, a Grecian 
structure of one story, erected to hold the treasures of 
classic sculpture that King LudAvig collected, has a 
beautiful Ionic porch and pediment. On the outside are 
niches filled with statues. In the pure sunshine and 
under a deep blue sky, its white marble glows with an 
almost ethereal beauty. Opposite stands another suc- 
cessful imitation of the Grecian style of architecture, — a 
building with a Corinthian porch, also of white marble. 
These, with the Propylaeum, before mentioned, come out 
wonderfully against a blue sky. A few squares distant 
is the Pinakothek, with its treasures of old pictures, and 
beyond it the New Pinakothek, containing works of mod- 
ern artists. Its exterior is decorated with frescos, from 
designs by Kaulbach : these certainly appear best in a 
sparkling light ; though I am bound to say that no light 
can make very much of them. 



OUTSIDE ASPECTS OF MUNTCH. loi 

Yet Munich is not all imitation. Its finest street, the 
Maximilian, built by the late king of that name, is of a 
novel and wholly modern style of architecture, not an 
imitation, though it may remind some of the new por- 
tions of Paris. It runs for three-quarters of a mile, be- 
ginning with the post-office and its colonnades, with 
frescos on one side, and the Hof Theatre, with its pedi- 
ment frescos, the largest opera-house in Germany, I 
believe; with stately buildings adorned with statues, 
and elegant shops, down to the swift-flowing Isar, which 
is spanned by a handsome bridge; or rather by two 
bridges, for the Isar is partly turned from its bed above, 
and made to turn wheels and drive machinery. At the 
lower end the street expands into a handsome platz, with 
young shade-trees, plats of grass, and gay beds of flow- 
ers. I look out on it as I write ; and I see across the 
Isar the college building begun by Maximilian for the 
education of government officers ; and I see that it is 
still unfinished, indeed, a staring mass of brick, with 
unsightly scafiblding and gaping windows. Money was 
left to complete it ; but the young king, who does not 
care for architecture, keeps only a mason or two on the 
brick work, and an artist on the exterior frescos. At 
this rate the Cologne Cathedral will be finished and 
decay before this is built. On either side of it, on the 
elevated bank of the river, stretch beautiful grounds, 
with green lawns, fiiie trees, and well-kept walks. 

Not to mention the English Garden in speaking of the 
outside aspects of the city, would be a great oversight. 
It was laid out originally by the munificent American, 
Count Rumford, and is called English, I suppose, because 
it is not in the artificial Continental style. Paris has 
nothing to compare with i"*. for natural beauty, — Paris, 
which cannot let a tree g.ow, but mu«t clip it down to 
suit French taste. It is a noble park four miles in 
length, and perhaps a quarter of that in width, — a park 
of splendid old trees, grand, sweeping avenues, open 
glades of free-growing grass, with delicious, shady walks, 



102 OUTSIDE- ASPECTS OF MUNICH. 

charming drives, and rivers of water. For the Isar is 
trained to flow through it in two rapid streams, under 
bridges and over rapids, and by willow-hung banks. 
There is not wanting even a lake ; and there is, I am 
sorry to say, a temple on a mound, quite in the classic 
style, from which one can see the sun set behind the 
many spires of Munich. At the Chinese Tower two 
military bands play every Saturday evening in the sum- 
mer ; and thither the carriages drive, and the prome- 
naders assemble there, Between five and six o'clock ; and 
while the bands play, the Germans drink beer, and smoke 
cigars, and the fashionably-attired young men walk round 
and round the circle, and the smart young soldiers ex- 
hibit their handsome uniforms, and stride about with 
clanking swords. 

We felicitated ourselves that we should have no lack 
of music when we came to Munich. I think we have 
not ; though the opera has only just begun, and it is the 
vacation of the Conservatoire. There are first the mili- 
tary bands : there is continually a parade somewhere, 
and the streets are full of military musie, and finely exe- 
cuted too. Then of beer-gardens there is literally no 
end, and there are nightly concerts in them. There are 
two brothers Hunn, each with his band, who, like the 
ancient Huns, have taken the city ; and its gardens are 
given over to their unending waltzes, polkas, and opera 
medleys. Then there is the church music on Sundays 
and holidays, which is largely of a military character ; at 
least, has the aid of drums and trumpets, and the whole 
band of brass. For the first few days of our stay here 
we had rooms near the Maximilian Platz and the Karl's 
Thor. I think there was some sort of a yearly fair in 
progress, for the great platz was filled with temporary 
booths : a circus had set itself up there, and there were 
innumerable side-shows and lottery-stands ; and I believe 
that each little shanty and puppet-show had its band or 
fraction of a band, for there was never heard such a toot- 
ing and blowing and scraping, such a pounding and din- 



OUTSIDE ASPECTS OF MUNICH. 103 

ning and slang-whanging, since the day of stopping work 
on the Tower of Babel. The circus band confined itself 
mostly to one tune ; and as it went all day long, and late 
into the night, we got to know it quite well ; at least, the 
bass notes of it, for the lighter tones came to us indis- 
tinctly. You know that blurt, blurt, thump, thump, disso- 
lute sort of caravan tune. That was it. The English Cafe 
was not far off, and there the Hunns and others also 
made night melodious. The whole air was one throb and 
thrump. The only refuge from it was to go into one of 
the gardens, and give yourself over to one band. And so 
it was possible to have delightful music, and see the 
honest Germans drink beer, and gossip in friendly fellow- 
ship and with occasional hilarity. But music we had, 
early and late. We expected quiet in our present quar- 
ters. The first morning, at six o'clock, we were startled 
by the resonant notes of a military band, that set the 
echoes flying between the houses, and a regiment of 
cavalry went clanking down the street. But that is a 
not unwelcome morning serenade and reveille. Not so 
agreeable is the young man next door, who gives hirari- 
ous concerts to lus friends, and sings and bangs his piano 
all day Sunday 5 nor the screaming young woman oppo- 
site. Yet it is something to be in an atmosphere of 
music. 



THE MILITARY LIFE OF MUNICH. 

TmS morning I was awakened early by the strains 
of a military band. It was a clear, sparkling morn- 
ing, the air full of life, and yet the sun showing its warm, 
southern side. As the mounted musicians went by, the 
square was quite filled with the clang of drum and trum- 
pet, which became fainter and fainter, and at length was 
lost on the ear beyond the Isar, but preserved the per- 
fection of time and the precision of execution for which 
the military bands of the city are remarkable. After the 
band came a brave array of officers in bright uniform, 
upon horses that pranced and curvetted in the sunshine ; 
and the regiment of cavalry followed, rank on rank of 
splendidly-mounted men, who ride as if born to the sad- 
dle. The clatter of hoofs on the pavement, the jangle 
of bit and sabre, the occasional word of command, the 
onward sweep of the well-trained cavalcade, continued 
for a long time, as if the lovely morning had brought all 
the cavalry in the city out of barracks. But this is an 
almost daily sight in Munich. One regiment after an- 
other goes over the river to the drill-ground. In the hot 
mornings I used quite to pity the troopers who rode away 
in the glare in scorching brazen helmets and breast- 
plates. But only a portion of the regiments dress in that 
absurd manner. The most wear a simple uniform, and 
look very soldierly. The horses are almost invariably 
fine animals, and I have not seen such riders in Europe. 
Indeed, everybody in Munich who rides at all rides 
well. Either most of the horsemen have served in the 
104 



THE MILITARY LIFE OF MUNICH. 105 

cavalry, or horsemanship, that noble art " to witch the 
world," is in high repute here. 

Speaking of soldiers, Munich is full of them. There 
are huge caserns in every part of the city crowded 
with troops. This little kingdom of Bavaria has a 
hundred and twenty thousand troops of the Hue. Every 
man is obliged to serve in the army continuously three 
years ; and every man between the ages of twenty-one 
and forty-five must go with his regiment into camp or 
barrack several weeks in each year, no matter if the 
harvest rots in the field, or the customers desert the 
uncared-for shop. The service takes three of the best 
years of a young man's life. Most of the soldiers in Mu- 
nich are young : one meets hundreds of mere boys in 
the uniform of officers. I think every seventh man you 
meet is a soldier. There must be between fifteen and 
twenty thousand troops quartered in the city now. The 
young officers are everywhere, lounging in the cafes, 
smoking and sipping coffee, on all the public promenades, 
in the gardens, the theatres, the churches. And most 
of them are fine-looking fellows, good figures in elegantly- 
fitting and tasteful uniforms ; but they do like to show 
their handsome forms and hear their sword-scabbards 
rattle on the pavement as they stride by. The beer- 
gardens are full of the common soldiers, who empty no 
end of quart mugs in alternate pulls from the same 
earthen jug, with the utmost jolUty and good fellowship. 
On the street, salutes between officers and men are per- 
petual, punctiliously given and returned, — the hand raised 
to the temple, and held there for a second. A young 
gallant, lounging down the Theatiner or the Maximilian 
Strasse, in his shining and snug uniform, white kids, and 
polished boots, with jangling spurs and the long sword 
clanking on the walk, raising his hand ever and°anon in 
condescending salute to a lower in rank, or with affable 
grace to an equal, is a sight worth beholding, and for 
which one cannot be too grateful. We have not all been 
created with the natural shape for soldiers, but we have 
eyes given us that we may behold them. 



io6 THE MILITARY LIFE OF MUNICH. 

Bavaria fought, you know, on the wrong side at Sa- 
dowa ; but the result of the war left her in confederation 
with Prussia. The company is getting to be very dis- 
tasteful, for Austria is at present more liberal than Prus- 
sia. Under Prussia one must either be a soldier or a 
slave, the democrats of Munich say. Bavaria has the 
most liberal constitution in Germany, except that of 
Wiirtemberg, and the people are jealous of any curtail- 
ment of liberty. It seems odd that anybody should look 
to the house of Hapsburg for liberality. The attitude 
of Prussia compels all the little states to keep up armies, 
which eat up their substance, and burden the people with 
taxes. This is the more to be regretted now, when Bava- 
ria is undergoing a peaceful revolution, and throwing off 
the trammels of galling customs in other respects. 



THE EMANCIPATION OF MUNICH. 

THE 1st of September saw go into complete effect 
the laws enacted in 1867, whicli have inaugurated 
the greatest changes in business and social life, and mark 
an era in the progress of the people worthy of fetes and 
commemorative bronzes. We heard the other night at 
the opera-house " William Tell " unmutilated. For many- 
years this liberty-breathing opera was not permitted to 
be given in Bavaria, except with all the life of it cut out. 
It was first presented entire by order of young King 
Ludwig, who, they say, was induced to command its 
unmutilated reproduction at the solicitation of Richard 
Wagner, who used to be, and very likely is now, a 
" Red," and was banished from Saxony in 1848 for fight- 
ing on the people's side of a barricade in Dresden. It is 
the fashion to say of the young king, that he pays no 
heed to the business of the kingdom. You hear that the 
handsome boy only cares for music and horseback exer- 
cise : he plays much on the violin, and rides away into 
the forest attended by only one groom, and is gone for 
days together. He has composed an opera, which has 
not yet been put on the stage. People, when they speak 
of him, tap their foreheads with one finger. But I don't 
believe it. The same liberality that induced him, years 
ago, to restore William Tell to the stage has character- 
ized the government under him ever since. 

Formerly no one could engage in any trade or busi- 
ness in Bavaria without previous examination before, 

I05r 



io8 THE EMANCIPA TION OF MUNICH. 

and permission from, a magistrate. If a boy wished to 
be a baker, for instance, he had first to serve four years 
of apprenticeship. If then he wished to set up business 
for himself, he must get permission, after passing an 
examination. This permission could rarely be obtained ; 
for the magistrate usually decided that there were 
already as many bakers as the town needed. His only 
other resource was to buy out an existing business, and 
this usually costs a good deal. When he petitioned for 
the privilege of starting a bakery, all the bakers pro- 
tested. And he could not even buy out a stand, and 
carry it on, without strict examination as to qualificar- 
tions. This was the case in every trade. And to make 
matters worse, a master workman could not employ a 
journeyman out of his shop ; so that, if a journeyman 
could not get a regular situation, he had no work. Then 
there were endless restrictions upon the manufacture and 
sale of articles : one person could only make one article, 
or one portion of an article; one might manufacture 
shoes for women, but not for men ; he might make an 
article in the shop and sell it, but could not sell it if any 
one else made it outside, or vice versa. 

Nearly all this mass of useless restriction on trades 
and business, which palsied all effort in Bavaria, is 
removed. Persons are free to enter into any business 
they like. The system of apprenticeship continues, but 
so modified as not to be oppressive ; and all trades are 
left to regulate themselves by natural competition. Al- 
ready Munich has felt the benefit of the removal of 
these restrictions, which for nearly a year has been anti- 
cipated, in a growth of population and increased busi- 
ness. 

But the social change is still more important. The 
restrictions upon marriage were a serious injury to the 
state. If Hans wished to marry, and felt himself ade- 
quate to the burdens and responsibilities of the double 
state, and the honest fraulein was quite willing to under- 
take its trials and risks with him, it was not at all 



THE EMANCIPA TION OF MUNICH. 109 

enough that in the moonlighted beer-garden, while the 
band played, and they peeled the stinging radish, and 
ate the Switzer cheese, and drank from one mug, she 
allowed his arm to steal around her stout waist. All 
this love and fitness went for nothing in the eyes of the 
magistrate, who referred the application for permission 
to marry to his associate advisers, and they inquired into 
the applicant's circumstances ; and if, in their opinion, 
he was not worth enough money to support a wife prop- 
erly, permission was refused for him to try. The conse- 
quence was late marriages, and fewer than there ought 
to be, and other ill results. Now the matrimonial gates 
are lifted high, and the young man has not to ask per- 
mission of any snuffy old magistrate to marry. I do not 
hear that the consent of the maidens is more difficult to 
obtain than formerly. 

No city of its size is more prolific of pictures than 
Munich. I do not know how all its artists manage to 
live, but many of them count upon the American public. 
I hear everywhere that the Americans like this, and do 
not like that ; and I am sorry to say that some artists, 
who have done better things, paint professedly to suit 
Americans, and not to express their own conceptions of 
beauty. There is one who is now quite devoted to 
dashing off rather lamp-blacky moonhghts, because, he 
says, the Americans fancy that sort of thing. I see one 
of his smirchy pictures hanging in a shop-window, await- 
ing the advent of the citizen of the United States. I 
trust that no word of mine will injure the sale of the 
moonlights. There are some excellent figure-painters 
here, and one can still buy good modern pictures for 
reasonable prices. 



FASHION IN THE STREETS. 

"\ ITAS there ever elsewhere such a blue, transparent 
VV sky as this here in Munich? At noon, looking 
up to it from the street, above the gray houses, the color 
and depth are marvellous. It makes a background for 
the Grecian art buildings and gateways, that would 
cheat a risen Athenian who should see it into the behef 
that he was restored to his beautiful city. The color 
holds, too, toward sundown, and seems to be poured, like 
something solid, into the streets of the city. 

You should see then the Maximilian Strasse, when the 
light floods the platz where Maximilian in bronze sits 
in his chair, illuminates the frescos on the pediments 
of the Hof Theatre, brightens the Pompeian red under 
the colonnade of the post-office, and streams down the 
gay thoroughfare to the trees and statues in front of the 
National Museum, and into the gold-dusted atmosphere 
beyond the Isar. The street is filled with promenaders : 
strangers who saunter alons; with the red book in one 
hand, — a man and his wife, the woman dragged reluc- 
tantly past the windows of fancy articles, which are " so 
cheap," the man breaking his neck to look up at the 
buildings, especially at the comical heads and figures in 
stone that stretch out from the little oriel-windows in 
the highest story of the Four-Seasons Hotel, and look 
down upon the moving throng ; Munich bucks in coats 
of velvet, swinging; ligbt canes, and smoking cigars 
through long and elaborately-carved meerschaum hold- 
ers ; Munich ladies in dresses of that inconvenient length 
110 



FASHION m THE STREE TS. in 

tliat neither sweeps the pavement nor clears it ; peasants 

from the Tyrol, the men in black, tight breeches, that 

button from the knee to the ankle, short jackets and 

vests set thickly with round silver buttons, and conical 

-hats with feathers, and the women in short quilted and 

quilled petticoats, of barrel-like roundness from the 

broad hips down, short waists ornamented with chains 

and barbarous brooches of white metal, with the oddest 

head-gear of gold and silver heirlooms ; students with 

little red or green embroidered brimless caps, with the 

ribbon across the breast, a folded shawl thrown over one 

shoulder, and the inevitable switch-cane ; porters in red 

caps, with a coil of twine about the waist ; young fellows 

from Bohemia, with green coats, or coats trimmed with 

green, and green felt hats with a stiff feather stuck in 

the side ; and soldiers by the hundreds, of a,ll ranks and 

organizations ; common fellows in blue, staring in at the 

shop-windows, officers in resplendent uniforms, clanking 

their swords as they swagger past. Now and then, an 

elegant equipage dashes by, — perhaps the four horses of 

the handsome young king, with mounted postihons and 

outriders, or a liveried carriage of somebody born with 

a von before his name. As the twilight comes on, the 

shutters of the shop-windows are put up. It is time to 

go to the opera, for the curtain rises at half-past six, or 

to the beer-gardens, where delicious music marks, but 

does not interrupt, the flow of excellent beer. 

Or you may if you choose, and I advise you to do it, 
walk at the same hour in the English Garden, which is 
but a step from the arcades of the Hof Garden, — but a 
step to the entrance, whence you may wander for miles 
and miles in the most enchanting scenery. Art has not 
been allowed here to spoil nature. The trees, which 
are of magnificent size, are left to grow naturally ; the 
Isar, which is turned into it, flows in more than one 
stream with its mountain impetuosity ; the lake is grace- 
fully indented and overhung with trees, and presents 
ever-changing aspects of loveliness as you walk along its 



112 FASHION IN THE STREETS. 

banks ; there are open, sunny meadows, in whicli single 
giant trees or splendid groups of them stand, and walks 
without end winding under leafy Gothic arches. You 
know already that Munich owes this fine park to the 
foresight and liberality of an American Tory, Benjamin 
Thompson (Count Rumford), born in E,umford, Vt., who 
also relieved Munich of beo-gars. 

I have spoken of the number of soldiers in Munich. 
For six weeks the Landwehr, or militia, has been in 
camp in various parts of Bavaria. There was a grand 
review of them the other day on the Field of Mars, by 
the king, and many of them have now gone home. They 
strike an unmilitary man as a very efficient body of troops. 
So far as I could see, they were armed with breech-load- 
ing rifles. There is a treaty by which Bavaria agreed 
to assimilate her military organization to that of Prussia. 
It is thus that Bismarck is continually getting ready. 
But if the Landwehr is gone, there are yet remaining 
troops enough of the line. Their chief use, so far as it 
concerns me, is to make pageants in the streets, and to 
send their bands to play at noon in the public squares. 
Every day, when the sun shines down upon the mounted 
statue of Ludwig I., in front of the Odeon, a band plays 
in an open Loggia, and there is always a crowd of idlers 
in the square to hear it. Everybody has leisure for that 
sort of thing here in Europe ; and one can easily learn 
how to be idle and let the world wag. They have found 
out here what is disbelieved in America, — that the world 
will continue to turn over once in about twenty-four 
hours (they are not accurate as to the time) without 
their aid. To return to our soldiers. The cavalry most 
impresses me ; the men are so finely mounted, and they 
ride royally. In these sparkling mornings, when the 
regiments clatter past, with swelling music and shining 
armor, riding away to I know not what adventure and 
glory, I confess that I long to follow them. I have long had 
this desire ; and the other morning, determining to satisfy 
it, I seized my hat and went after the prancing proces- 



FASHION IN THE STREE TS. 1 13 

sion. I am sorry I did. For, after trudging after it 
through street after street, the fine horsemen all rode 
through an arched gateway, and disappeared in barracks, 
to my great disgust ; and the troopers dismounted, and 
led their steeds into stables. 

And yet one never loses a walk here in Munich. I 
found myself that morning by the Isar Thor, a restored 
mediaeval city-gate. The gate is double, with flanking 
octagonal towers, enclosing a quadrangle. Upon the 
inner wall is a fresco of '' The Crucifixion." Over the 
outer front is a representation, in fresco painting, of the 
triumphal entry into the city of the Emperor Louis of 
Bavaria after the battle of Ampfing. On one side of the 
gate is a portrait of the Virgin, on gold ground, and on 
the other a very passable one of the late Dr. Hawes of 
Hartford, with a Pope's hat on. Walking on, I came to 
another arched gateway and clock-tower ; near it an old 
church, with a high wall adjoining, whereon is a fresco 
of cattle led to slaughter, showing that I am in the vicin- 
ity of the Victual Market; and I enter it through a 
narrow, crooked alley. There is nothing there but an 
assemblage of shabby booths and fruit-stands, and au 
ancient stone tower in ruins and overgrown with ivy. 

Leaving this, I came out to the Marian Platz, where 
stands the column, with the statue of the Virgin and 
Child, set up by Maximilian I. in 1638 to celebrate the 
victory in the battle which established the Catholic 
supremacy in Bavaria. It is a favorite praying-place 
for the lower classes. Yesterday was a fete day, and 
the base of the column and half its height are lost in a 
mass of flowers and evergreens. Li front is erected an 
altar •V7ith a broad, carpeted platform ; and a strip of the 
platz before it is enclosed with a railing, within which 
are praying-benches. The sun shines down hot ; but 
there are several poor women kneeling there, with their 
baskets beside them. I happen along there at sundown ; 
and there are a score of women kneeling on the hard 
stoneSj outside the railing saying their prayers in loud 
10* 



114 FASHION IN THE STREETS. 

voices. The mass of flowers is still sweet and gay and 
fresh ; a fountain with fantastic figures is flashing near 
by ; the crowd, going home to supper and beer, gives no 
heed to the praying; the stolid drosche-drivers stand 
listlessly by. At the head of the square is an artillery 
station, and a row of cannon frowns on it. On one side 
is a house with a tablet in the wall, recording the fact 
that Gustavus Adolphus of Sweden once lived in it. 

When we came to Munich, the great annual fair was 
in progress ; and the large Maximilian Platz (not to be 
confounded with the street of that name) was filled with 
booths of cheap merchandise, puppet-shows, lottery 
shanties, and all sorts of popular amusements. It was 
a fine time to study peasant costumes. The city was 
crowded with them on Sunday; and let us not forget 
that the first visit of the peasants was to the churches : 
they invariably attended early mass before they set out 
upon the day's pleasure. Most of the churches have 
services at all hours till noon, some of them with fine 
classical and military music. One could not but be 
struck with the devotional manner of the simple women, 
in their queer costumes, who walked into the gaudy edi- 
fices, were absorbed in their prayers for an hour, and 
then went away. I suppose they did not know how odd 
they looked in their high, round fur hats, or their fan- 
tastic old ornaments, nor that there was any thing amiss 
in bringing their big baskets into church with them. 
At least, their simple, unconscious manner was better 
than that of many of the city people, some of whom 
stare about a good deal, while going through the service, 
and stop in the midst of crossings and genuflections to 
take snuff" and pass it to their neighbors. But there are 
always present simple and homelike sort of people, who 
neither follow the fashions nor look round on them ; 
respectable, neat old ladies, in the faded and carefully- 
preserved silk gowns, such as the New-England women 
wear to " meeting." 

No one can help admiring the simplicity, kindliness, 



FASHION IN THE STREE TS. 115 

and honesty of the Germans. The universal courtesy 
and friendliness of manner have a very different seeming 
from the politeness of the French. At the hotels in the 
country, the landlord and his wife and the servant join 
in hoping you will sleep well when you go to bed. The 
little maid at Heidelberg who served our meals always 
went to the extent of wishing us a good appetite when 
she had brought in the dinner. Here in Munich the 
people we have occasion to address in the street are uni- 
formly courteous. The shop-keepers are obliging, and 
rarely servile, like the English. You are thanked, and 
punctiliously wished the good day, whether you purchase 
any thing or not. In shops tended by women, gentlemen 
invariably remove their hats. If you buy only a kreu- 
zer's worth of fruit of an old woman, she says words that 
would be, literally translated, " I thank you beautifully.'* 
With all this, one looks kindly on the childish love the 
Germans have for titles. It is, I believe, difficult for the 
German mind to comprehend that we can be in good 
standing at home, unless we have some title prefixed to 
our names, or some descriptive phrase added. Our good 
landlord, who waits at the table and answers our bell, 
one of whose tenants is a living baron, having no title 
to put on his door-plate under that of the baron, must 
needs dub himself " privatier ; " and he insists upon 
prefixing the name of this unambitious writer with the 
ennobling von; and at the least he insists, in common 
with the tradespeople, that I am a "Herr Doctor." 
The bills of purchases by madame come made out to 

"Frau , well-born." At a hotel in Heidelberg, 

where I had registered my name with that distinctness 
of penmanship for which newspaper men are justly con- 
spicuous, and had added to my own name " & wife," I 
was not a little flattered to appear in the reckoning aa 
" Herr Doctor Mamesweise." 



THE GOTTESACKER AND BAVARIAN 
FUNERALS. 

TO change the subject from gay to grave. The 
Gottesacker of Munich is called the finest cemetery 
in Germany ; at least, it surpasses them in the artistic 
taste of its monuments. Natural beauty it has none : it is 
simply a long, narrow strip of ground enclosed in walls, 
with straight, parallel walks running the whole length, 
and narrow cross-walks; and yet it is a lovely burial- 
ground. There are but few trees ; but the whole enclosure 
is a conservatory of beautiful flowers. Every grave is cov- 
ered with them, every monument is surrounded with 
them. The monuments are unpretending in size, but 
there are many fine designs, and many finely-executed 
busts and statues and allegorical figures, in both marble 
and bronze. The place is full of sunlight and color. I 
noticed that it was much frequented. In front of every 
place of sepulchre stands a small urn for water, with a 
brush hanging by, with which to sprinkle the flowers. I 
saw, also, many women and children coming and going 
with watering-pots, so that the flowers never droop for 
want of care. At the lower end of the old ground is an 
open arcade, wherein are some effigies and busts, and 
many ancient tablets set into the wall. Beyond this is 
the new cemetery, an enclosure surrounded by a high 
wall of. brick, and on the inside by an arcade. The 
space within is planted with flowers, and laid out for the 
burial of the people; the arcades are devoted to the 
occupation of those who can afford costly tombs. Only 
116 



THE GO TTES ACKER AND 117 

a small number of tliem are yet occupied ; there are some 
good busts and monuments, and some frescos on tlie 
panels rather more striking for size and color than for 
beauty. 

Between the two cemeteries is the house for the dead. 
When I walked down the long central allee of the old 
ground, I saw at the farther end, beyond a fountain, 
twinkling lights. Coming nearer, I found that they pro- 
ceeded from the large windows of a building, which was 
a part of the arcade. People were looking in at the win- 
dows, going and coming to and from them continually ; 
and I was prompted by otiriosity to look within. A most 
unexpected sight met my eye. In a long room, upon ele- 
vated biers, lay people dead: they were so disposed 
that the faces could be seen ; and there they rested in a 
solemn repose. Officers in uniform, citizens in plain 
dress, matrons and maids in the habits that they wore 
when living, or in the white robes of the grave. About 
most of them were lighted candles. About all of them 
were flowers : some were almost covered with bouquets. 
There were rows of children, — little ones scarce a span 
long, — in the white caps and garments of innocence, as 
if asleep in beds of bowers. How naturally they all were 
lying, as if only waiting to be called ! Upon the thumb 
of every adult was a ring in which a string was tied that 
went through a pulley above and communicated with a 
bell in the attendant's room. How frightened he would 
be if the bell should ever sound, and he should go into 
that hall of the dead to see who rang ! And yet it is a 
most wise and humane provision ; and many years ago, 
there is a tradition, an entombment alive was prevented 
by it. There are three rooms in all ; and all those who 
die in Munich must be brought and laid in one of them, 
to be seen of all who care to look therein. 1 suppose 
that wealth and rank have some privileges ; but it is the 
law that a person having been pronounced dead by the 

Ehysician shall be the same day brought to the dead- 
ouse, and lie there three whole days before interment. 



1 18 BA V ART AN FUNERALS. 

There is something peculiar in the obsequies of Mu- 
nich, especially in the Catholic portion of the population. 
Shortly after the death, there is a short service in the 
courtyard of the house, which, with the entrance, is liung 
in costly mourning, if the deceased was rich. The body 
is then carried in the car to the dead-house, attended by 
the priests, the male members of the family, and a pro- 
cession of torch-bearers, if that can be afforded. Tliree 
days after, the bui-ial takes place from the dead-house, 
only males attending. The women never go to the fune- 
ral ; but some days after, of which public notice is given 
by advertisement, a public service is held in church, at 
which all the family are present, and to which the friends 
are publicly invited. Funeral obsequies are as costly 
here as in America ; but every thing is here regulated 
and fixed by custom. There are as many as five or six 
classes of funerals recognized. Those of the first class, 
as to rank and expense, cost about a thousand guldens. 
The second class is divided into six sub-classes. The 
third is divided into two. The cost of the first of the 
third class is about four hundred guldens. The low- 
est class of those able to have a funeral costs twenty-five 
guldens. A gulden is about two francs. There are no 
carriages used at the funerals of Catholics, only at those 
of Protestants and Jews. 

I spoke of the custom of advertising the deaths. A 
considerable portion of the daily newspapers is devoted 
to these announcements, which are printed in display 
type, like the advertisements of dry-goods sellers with 
you. I will roughly translate one which I happen to see 
just now. It reads, " Death advertisement. It has 
pleased God the Almighty, in his inscrutable providence, 
to take away our innermost loved, best husband, father, 

grandfather, uncle, brother-in-law, and cousin, Herr 

, dyer of cloth and silk, yesterday night, at eleven 

o'clock, after three weeks of severe suffering, having par- 
taken of the holy sacrament, in his sixty-sixth year, out 
of this earthly abode of calamity into the better Beyond, 



THE GO TTES ACKER. 119 

Those who knew his good heart, his great honesty, as 
well as his patience in suffering, will know how justly to 
estimate our grief." This is signed by the " deep-griev- 
ing survivors," — the widow, son, daughter, and daughter- 
in-law, in the name of the absent relatives. After the 
name of the son is written, " Dyer in cloth and silk." 
The notice closes with an announcement of the funeral 
at the cemetery, and a service at the church the day 
after. The advertisement I have given is not uncommon 
either for quaintness or simplicity. It is common to 
engrave upon the monument the business as well as the 
title of the departed. 



THE OCTOBER FEST. —THE PEASANTS 
AND THE KING. 

ON the 11th of October the sun came out, after a 
retirement of nearly two weeks. The cause of the 
appearance was the close of the October Fest. This 
great popular carnival has the same effect upon the 
weather in Bavaria that the Yearly Meeting of Friends 
is known to produce in Philadelphia, and the Great Na- 
tional Horse Fair in New England. It always rains 
during; the October Fest. Havinsj found this out, I do 
not know why they do not change the time of it ; but I ' 
presume they are wise enough to feel that it would be 
useless. A similar attempt on the part of the Pennsyl- 
vania Quakers merely disturbed the operations of nature, 
but did not save the drab bonnets from the annual wet- 
ting. There is a subtle connection between such gather- 
ings and the gathering of what are called the elements, 
— a sympathetic connection, which we shall, no doubt, 
one day understand, when we have collected facts enough 
on the subject to make a comprehensive generalization, 
after Mr. Buckle's method. 

This fair, which is just concluded, is a true Folks- 
Fest, a season especially for the Bavarian people, an 
agricultural fair and cattle show, but a time of gene- 
ral jollity and amusement as well. Indeed, the main 
object of a German fair seems to be to have a good time ; 
and in this it is in marked contrast with American fairs. 
The October Fest was instituted for the people by the 
old Ludwig I. on the occasion of his marriage ; and it 
120 



THE OCTOBER PEST i2i 

has ever since retained its position as the great festival 
of the Bavarian people, and particularly of the peasants. 
It offers a rare opportunity to the stranger to study the 
costumes of th-e peasants, and to see how they amuse 
themselves. One can judge a good deal of the progress 
of a people by the sort of amusements that satisfy them. 
I am not about to draw any philosophical interferences, — 
I am a mere looker-on in Munich ; but I have never 
anywhere else seen puppet-shows afford so much delight, 
nor have I ever seen anybody get more satisfaction out 
of a sausage and a mug of beer, with the tum-tum of a 
band near by, than a Bavarian peasant. 

The Fest was held on the Theresien Wiese, a vast 
meadow on the outskirts of the city. The ground rises 
on one side of this by an abrupt step, some thirty or 
forty feet high, like the "bench" of a Western river. 
This bank is terraced for seats the whole length, or as 
far down as the statue of Bavaria ; so that there are turf 
seats, I should judge, for three-quarters of a mile, for a 
great many thousands of people, who can look down 
upon the race-course, the tents, houses, and booths of the 
fair ground, and upon the roof and spires of the city 
beyond. The statue is, as you know, the famous bronze 
Bavaria of Schwanthaler, a colossal female figure, fifty 
feet high, and, with its pedestal, a hundred feet high, 
which stands in front of the Hall of Fame, a Doric edi- 
fice, in the open colonnades of which are displayed the 
busts of the most celebrated Bavarians, together with 
those of a few poets and scholars who were so unfortu- 
nate as not to be born here. The Bavaria stands with 
the right hand upon the sheathed sword, and the left 
raised in the act of bestowing a wreath of victory ; and 
the Ron of the kingdom is beside her. This representa- 
tive being is, of course, hollow. There is room for eight 
people in her head, which I can testify is a warm place 
on a sunny day ; and one can peep out through loop- 
holes and get a good view of the Alps of the Tyrol. To 
say that this statue is graceful or altogether successful, 
11 



122 THE PEASANTS AND THE KING. 

would be an error ; but it is rather impressive, from its 
size, if for- no other reason. In the cast of the hand 
exhibited at the bronze foundery, the forefinger meas- 
ures over three feet long. 

Akhough the Fest did not officially begin until Fri- 
day, Oct. 2, yet the essential part of it, the amusements, 
"was well under way on the Sunday before. The town 
began to be filled with country people, and the holiday 
might be said to have commenced ; for the city gives 
itself up to the occasion. The new art galleries are 
closed for some days ; but the collections and museums 
of various sorts are daily open, gratis ; the theatres 
redouble their efforts ; the concert-halls are in full blast ; 
there are dances nightly, and masked balls in the Folks' 
Theatre ; country relatives are entertained ; the peasants 
go about the streets in droves, in a simple and happy 
frame of mind, wholly unconscious that they are the 
oddest-looking guys that have come down from the Mid- 
dle Ages ; there is music in all the gardens, singing in 
the cq/es, beer flowing in rivers, and a mighty smell of . 
cheese, that goes up to heaven. If the eating of cheese 
were a religious act, and its odor an incense, I could not 
say enough of the devoutness of the Bavarians. 

Of the picturesqueness and oddity of the Bavarian 
peasants' costumes, nothing but a picture can give you 
any idea. You can imagine the men in tight breeches, 
buttoned below the knee, jackets of the jockey cut, and 
both jacket and waistcoat covered with big metal but- 
tons, sometimes coins, as thickly as can be sewed on : 
hut the women defy the pen; a Bavarian peasant-woman, 
in holiday dress, is the most fearfully and wonderfully 
made object in the universe. She displays a good length 
of striped stockings, and wears thin slippers, or sandals ; 
her skirts are like a hogshead, in size and shape, and 
reach so near her shoulders as to make her appear hump- 
backed ; the sleeves are hugely swelled out at the shoul- 
der, and taper to the wrist ; the bodice is a stifi" and most 
elaborately-ornamented piece of armor ; and there is a 



THE OCTOBER TEST. 123 

kind of breastplate, or centre-piece, of gold, silver, and 
precious stones, or what passes for them ; and the head 
is adorned with some monstrous heirloom, of finely- 
worked gold or silver, or a tower, gilded and shining 
with long streamers, or bound in a simple black turban, 
with flowing ends. Little old girls, dressed like their 
mothers, have the air of creations of the fancy, who have 
walked out of a fairy-book. There is an endless variety 
in these old costumes ; and one sees, every moment, one 
more preposterous than the preceding. The girls from 
the Tyrol, with their bright neckerchiefs and pointed 
black felt hats, with gold cord and tassels, are some of 
them very pretty : but one looks a long time for a bright 
face among the other class ; and, when it is discovered, 
the owner appears like a maiden who was enchanted a 
hundred years ago, and has not been released irom the 
spell, but is still doomed to wear the garments and the 
ornaments that should long ago have mouldered away 
with her ancestors. 

The Theresien Wiese was a city of Vanity Fair for 
two weeks, every day crowded with a motley throng. 
Booths, and even structures of some solidity, rose on it 
as if by magic. The lottery-houses were set up early, 
and, to the last, attracted crowds, who could not resist 
the tempting display of goods and trinkets, which might 
be won by investing six kreuzers in a bit of paper, which 
might, when unrolled, contain a number. These lotter- 
ies are all authorized : some of them were for the bene- 
fit of the agricultural society ; some were for the poor, 
and others on individual account : and they always 
thrive ; for the German, above all others, loves to try his 
luck. There were streets of shanties, where various 
things were offered for sale besides cheese and sausages. 
There was a long line of booths, where images could be 
shot at with bird-guns ; and, when the shots were success- 
ful, the images went through astonishing revolutions. 
There was a circus, in front of which some of the span- 
gled performers always stood beating drums and postur- 



124 THE PEASANTS AND THE KING. 

ing, in order to entice in spectators. Tliere were the 
pnppet-booths, before which all day stood gaping, de- 
lighted crowds, who roared with laughter whenever the 
little frau beat her loutish husband about the head, and 
set him to tend the baby, who continued to wail, not- 
withstanding the man knocked its head against the door- 
post. There were the great beer-restaurants, with tem- 
porary benches and tables, planted about with evergreens, 
always thronged witji a noisy, jolly crowd. There were 
the fires, over which fresh fish were broiling on sticks ; 
and, if you lingered, you saw the fish taken alive from 
tubs of water standing by, dressed and e pitted and broil- 
ing before the wiggle was out of their tails. There were 
the old women who mixed the flour and fried the brown 
cakes before your eyes, or cooked the fragrant sausage, 
and offered it piping hot. 

And every restaurant and show had its band, brass or 
string, — a full array of red-faced fellows tooting through 
horns, or a sorry quartet, — the fat woman with the 
harp, the lean man blowing himself out through the clari- 
net, the long-haired fellow with the flute, and the robust 
and thick-necked fiddler. Everywhere there was music ; 
the air was full of the odor of cheese and cooking sau- 
sage ; so that there was nothing wanting to the most com- 
plete enjoyment. The crowd surged round, jammed to- 
gether, in the best possible humor. Those who could 
not sit at tables sat on the ground, with a link of an 
eatable I have already named in one hand, and a mug 
of beer beside them. Toward evening, the ground was 
strewn with these gray quart mugs, which gave as per- 
fect evidence of the battle of the day as the cannon-balls 
on the sand before Fort Fisher did of the contest there. 
Besides this, for the amusement of the crowd, there is, 
every day, a wheelbarrow race, a sack race, a blindfold 
contest, or something of the sort, which turns out to be 
a very flat performance. But, all the time, the eatino; and 
the drinking go on, and the clatter and clink of it fill the 
air ; so that the great object of the fair is not lost sight of. 



THE OCTOBER FEST. 125 

Meantime, where is the agricultural fair and cattle- 
show ? You must know that we do these things differ- 
ently in Bavaria. On the fair-ground, there is very lit- 
tle to be seen of the fair. There is an enclosure where 
steam-engines are smoking and puffing, and threshing- 
machines are making a clamor ; where some big church- 
bells hang, and where there are a few stalls for horses 
and cattle. But the competing horses and cattle are 
led before the judges elsewhere ; the horses, for instance, 
by the royal stables in the city. I saw no such general 
exhibition of domestic animals as you have at your fairs. 
The horses that took the prizes were of native stock, a 
very serviceable breed, excellent for carriage-horses, and 
admirable in the cavalry service. The bulls and cows 
seemed also native and to the manor born, and were 
worthy of little remark. The mechanical, vegetable, 
and fruit exhibition was in the great glass palace, in the 
city, and was very creditable in the fruit department, — in 
the show of grapes and pears especially. The products 
of the dairy were less, though I saw one that I do not 
recollect ever to have seen in America, — a landscape in 
butter. Enclosed in a case, it looked very much like a 
wood-carving. There was a Swiss cottage, a milkmaid, 
with cows in the foreground ; there were trees, and in 
the rear rose rocky precipices, with chamois in the act 
of skipping thereon. I should think something might be 
done in our country in this line of the fine arts ; cer- 
tainly, some of the butter that is always being sold so 
cheap at St. Albans, when it is high everywhere else, 
must be strong enough to warrant the attempt. As to 
the other departments of the fine arts in the glass palace, 
I cannot give you a better idea of them than by saying 
that they were as well filled as the like ones in the 
American county fairs. There were machines for 
threshing, for straw-cutting, for apple-paring, and gene- 
rally such a display of implements as would give one a 
favorable idea of Bavarian agriculture. There was an 
interesting exhibition of live fish, great and small, of 
11* 



126 THE PEASANTS AND THE KING. 

nearly every sort, I should think, in Bavarian waters. 
The show in the fire-department was so antiquated, that 
I was convinced that the people of Munich never intend 
to have any fires. 

The great day of the fete was Sunday, Oct. 5 ; for on 
that day the king went out to the fair-ground, and dis- 
tributed the prizes to the owners of the best horses, and, 
as they appeared to me, of the most ugly-colored bulls. 
The city was literally crowded with peasants and coun- 
try people ; the churches were full all the morning with 
devout -masses, which poured into the waiting beer- 
houses afterward with equal zeal. By twelve o'clock, 
the city began to empty itself upon the Theresien 
meadow ; and long before the time for the king to arrive 
— two o'clock — there were acres of people waiting for 
the performance to begin. The terraced bank, of which 
I have spoken, was taken possession of early, and held 
by a solid mass of people ; while the fair-ground proper 
was packed with a swaying concourse, densest near the 
royal pavilion, which was erected immediately on the 
race-course, and opposite the bank. 

At one o'clock the grand stand opposite to the royal 
one is taken possession of by a regiment band and by 
invited guests. All the space, except the race-course, 
is, by this time, packed with people, who watch the red 
and white gate at the head of the course with growing 
impatience. It opens to let in a regiment of infantry, 
which marches in and takes position. It swings, every 
now and then, for a solitary horseman, who gallops down 
the line in all the pride of mounted civic dignity, to the 
disgust of the crowd ; or to let in a carriage, with some 
over-dressed officer or splendid minister, who is entitled 
to a place in the royal pavilion. It is a people's fete^ 
and the civic officers enjoy one day of conspicuous 
glory. Now a majestic person in gold lace is set down; 
and now one in a scarlet coat, as beautiful as a flamingo. 
These driblets of splendor only feed the popular impa- 
tience. Music is heard in the distance, and a procession 



THE OCTOBER FEST. 127 



with colored banners is seen approaclimg from the city. 
That, like every thing else that is to come, stops beyond 
the c osed gate; and^there it halts, ready to stream down 
before our lyes in a variegated pageant. The tmie goes 
on: the crowd gets denser, for there have been steady 
rivers of people pouring into the grounds for m?re than 
an hour. "^The military bands pay m the lon^n^^^^^^^^ 
the peasants jabber in unmtelligible dialects the high 
functionaries in the royal stand are good enough to move 
around, and let us see how brave and majestic they aie. 
At last the firing of cannon announces the coming ot 
royalty. There is a commotion in the vast crowd yonder, 
the ea-erly-watched gates swing wide, and a well-mounted 
company of cavalry dashes down the turf, m unifor^^ of 
liaht blue and gold. It is a citizen s company of bu ch- 
ers and bakers and candlestick-makers, which would do 
no discredit to the regular army. Driving close alter is 
a four-horse carriage^with two of the king's ministers; 
Ld then, at a rapid pace, six coal-black horses in si^er 
harness, with mounted postilions, drawing ^ long, slen 
der, open carriage with one seat, m which ride the km- 
and his brotherr Prince Otto, come down the way, and 
are pulenp in front of the pavilion; while the cannon 
^oarrlhe b S bells ring, all the flags of Bavaria, Prussia 
and Aus?riaron innum;rable polel, are blowing straight 
out tte band plays " God save the King," tl-P-P^ break 
into enthusiastic shouting, and the young king, thiowmg 
off his cloak, rises and stands m his carnage foi a 
moment bowino- right and left before he descends. He 
we"rrto-day the simple uniform of the citi-ns' com^ 
which has escorted him, and is consequently more plamly 
and neatly dressed than any one else on the P^attorm, — a 
Ull (say L feet), slender, gallant-looking young tellow 
of three and twenty, with an open face and a graceful 

manner. , . . , ^ „ cfonrl • 

But, when he has arrived, things again come to a stand , 

and we wait for an hour, and watch the thickening of 

the clouds, while the king goes from this to that delighted 



128 THE PEASANTS AND THE KING. 

dignitary on the stand and converses. At the end of 
this time, there is a movement. A white dog has got 
into the course, and runs up and down between the 
■walls of people in terror, headed off by soldiers at 
either side of the grand stand, and finally, becoming 
desperate, he makes a dive for the royal pavilion. The 
consternation is extreme. The people cheer the dog and 
laugh : a white-handed official, in gold lace, and without 
his hat, rushes out to " shoo " the dog away, but is unsuc- 
cessful ; for the animal dashes between his legs, and 
approaches the royal and carpeted steps. More men of 
rank run at him, and he is finally captured and borne 
away ; and we all breathe freer that the danger to royalty 
is averted. At one o'clock six youths in white jackets, 
with clubs and coils of rope, had stationed themselves by 
the pavilion, but they did not go into action at this 
juncture ; and I thought they rather enjoyed the activity 
of the great men who kept off the dog. 

At lens^th there was another stir : and the king de- 
scended from the rear of his pavilion, attended by his 
ministers, and moved about among the people, who made 
way for him, and uncovered at his approach. He spoke 
with one and another, and strolled about as his fancy 
took him. I suppose this is called mingling with the 
common people. After he had mingled about fifteen 
minutes, he returned, and took his place on the steps in 
front of the pavilion ; and the distribution of prizes 
began. First the horses were led out ; and their owners, 
approaching the king, received from his hands the diplo- 
mas, and a flag from an attendant. Most of them were 
peasants ; and they exhibited no servility in receiving 
their marks of distinction, but bowed to the king as 
they would to any other man, and his majesty touched 
his cocked hat in return. Then came the prize-cattle, 
many of them led by women, who are as interested as 
their husbands in all farm matters. Every thing goes 
off smoothly, except there is a momentary panic over a 
fractious bull, who plunges into the crowd ; but the six 






THE OCTOBER TEST. 129 

white jackets are about liim in an instant, and entangle 
liiai with their ropes. 

This over, the gates again open, and the gaj caval- 
cade that has been so long in sight approaches. First 
a band of musicians in costumes of the Middle Ages ; 
and then a band of pages in ih.Q gayest apparel, bearing 
pictured banners and flags of all colors, whose silken 
lustre would have been gorgeous in sunshine ; these 
were followed by mounted heralds with trumpets, and 
after them were led the running horses entered for the 
race. The banners go upon the royal stand, and group 
themselves picturesquely ; the heralds disappear at the 
other end of the list ; and almost immediately the horses, 
ridden by young jockeys in stunning colors, come flying 
past in a general scramble. There are a dozen or more 
horses ; but, after the first round, the race lies between 
two. The course is considerably over an English mile, 
and they make four circuits ; so that the race is fully six 
miles, — a very hard one. It was a run in a rain, how- 
ever, which began wheii it did, and soon forced up the 
umbrellas. The vast crowd disappeared under a shed of 
umbrellas, of all colors, — black, green, red, blue ; and 
the effect Vas very singular, especially when it moved from 
the field : there was then a Niagara of umbrellas. The 
race was soon over : it is only a peasants' race, after all ; 
the aristocratic races of the best horses take place in 
May. It was over. The king's carriage was brought 
round, the people again shouted, the cannon roared, the 
six black horses reared and plunged, and away he 
went. 

" After all," says the artist, " the King of Bavaria has 
not much power." 

" You can see," returns a gentleman who speaks Eng- 
lish, "just how much he has : it is a six-horse power." 

On other days there was horse-trotting, music produc- 
tion, and for several days prize-shooting. The latter was 
admirably conducted : the targets were placed at the 
foot of the bank ; and opposite, I should think not more 



I30 THE PEASANTS AND THE KING. 

than two hundred yards off, were shooting-houses, each 
with a room for the register of the shots, and on each side 
of him closets where the shooters stand. Signal-wires run 
from these houses to the targets, where there are attend- 
ants who telegraph the effect of every shot. Each com- 
petitor has a little book ; and he shoots at any booth he 
pleases, or at all, and has his shots registered. There 
was a continual fusillade for a couple of days ; but what 
it all came to, I cannot tell. I can only say, that, if they 
shoot as steadily as they drink beer, there is no other 
corps of shooters that can stand before them. 



INDIAN SUMMER. 

W"E are all quiet along the Isar since the October 
Fest ; since the young king has come back from 
his summer castle on the Starnberg See to live in his 
dingy palace ; since the opera has got into good work- 
ing order, and the regular indoor concerts at the cafes have 
begun. There is no lack of amusements, with balls, 
theatres, and the cheap concerts, vocal and instrumental. 
I stepped into the West Ende Halle the other night, 
having first surrendered twelve kreuzers to the money- 
changer at the entrance, — double the usual fee, by the 
way. It was large and' well lighted, with a gallery all 
round it and an orchestral platform at one end. The 
floor and gallery were filled with people of the most 
respectable class, who sat about little round tables, and 
drank beer. Every man was smoking a cigar ; and the 
atmosphere was of that degree of haziness that we asso- 
ciate with Indian summer at home ; so that through it 
the people in the gallery appeared like glorified objects 
in a heathen Pantheon, and the orchestra like men play- 
ing in a dream. Yet nobody seemed to mind it ; and 
there was, indeed, a general air of social enjoyment and 
good feeling. Whether this good feeling was in process 
of being produced by the twelve or twenty glasses of 
beer which it is not unusual for a German to drink 
of an evening, I do not know. " I do not drink much 
beer now," said a German acquaintance, — " not more 
than four or five glasses in an evening." This is indeed 
moderation, when we remember that sixteen glasses of 

131 



132 INDIAN SUMMER. 

beer is only two gallons. The orchestra playing that 
night was Gungl's; and it performed, among other 
things, the whole of the celebrated Third (or Scotch) 
Symphony of Mendelssohn in a manner that would be 
greatly to the credit of orchestras that play without the 
aid of either smoke or beer. Concerts of this sort, gen- 
erally with more popular music and a considerable dash 
of Wagner, in whom the Munichcrs believe, take place 
every nioiit in several cafes : while comic sino-ins:, some 
of it exceedingly well done, can be heard in others. 
Such amusements — and nothing can be more harm- 
less — are very cheap. 

Speaking of Indian summer, the only approach to it 
I have seen was in the hazy atmosphere at the West 
Ende Halle. October outdoors has been an almost 
totally disagreeable month, with the exception of some 
days, or rather parts of days, when we have seen the sun, 
and experienced a mild atmosphere. At such times, 
I have liked to sit down on one of the empty benches in 
the Hof Garden, where the leaves already half cover the 
ground, and the dropping horse-chestnuts keep up a 
pattering on them. Soon the fat woman who has a 
fruit-stand at the gate is sure to come waddling along, 
her beaming face making a sort of illumination in the 
autumn scenery, and sit down near me. As soon as she 
comes, the little brown birds and the doves all fly that 
way, and look up expectant at her. They all know her, 
and expect the usual supply of bread-crumbs. Indeed, 
I have seen her on a still Sunday morning, when I have 
been sitting there waiting for the English ceremony of 
praying for Queen Victoria and Albert Edward to begin 
in the Odeon, sit for an hour, and cut up bread for her 
little brown flock. She sits now knittino; a red stoekinor, 
the picture of content ; one after another her old gossips 
pass that way, and stop a moment to exchange the chat 
of the day ; or the policeman has his joke with her ; 
and, when there is nobody else to converse with, she 
talks to the birds. A benevolent old soul, I am sure, 



/ 



INDIAN SUMMER. 133 

who, in a New-England village, Would be universally 
called " Aunty," and would lay all the rising generation 
under obligation to her for doughnuts and sweet-cake. 
As she rises to go away, she scrapes together a half- 
dozen shining chestnuts with her feet ; and, as she cannot 
possibly stoop to pick them up, she motions to a boy 
playing near, and smiles so happily as the urchin gathers 
them and runs away without even a " thank-ye." 



A TASTE OF ULTRAMONTANISM. 

IF that of which every German dreams, and so few 
are ready to take any practical steps to attain, — 
German unity, — ever comes, it must ride rough-shod 
over the Romish clergy, for one thing. Of course there 
are other obstacles. So long as beer is cheap, and songs 
of the Fatherland are set to lilting strains, will these excel- 
lent people " Ho, ho, my brothers," and " Hi, hi, my 
brothers," and wait for fate, in the shape of some com- 
pelling Bismarck, to drive them into any thing more than 
the brotherhood of brown mugs of beer and Wagner's 
mysterious music of the future. I am not sure, by the 
way, that the music of Richard Wagner is not highly 
typical of the present (in 1868) state of German unity, 
— an undefined longing which nobody exactly under- 
stands. There are those who think they can discern 
in his music the same revolutionary tendency which 
placed the composer on the right side of a Dresden bar- 
ricade in 1848, and who go so far as to believe that the 
liberalism of the young King of Bavaria is not a little 
due to his passion for the disorganizing operas of this 
transcendental writer. Indeed, I am not sure that any 
other people than Germans would not find in the repe- 
tition of the five hours of the Meister- Sanger von 
Niirnberg, which was given the other night at the Hof 
Theatre, sufficient reason for revolution. 

Well, what I set out to say was, that most Germans 
would like unity if they could be the unit. Each State 
would like to be the centre of the consolidated system ; 
134 



A TASTE OF ULTRAMONTANISM. 135 

and tlius it happens that every practical step toward 
political unity meets a host of opponents at once. When 
Austria, or rather the house of Hapsburg, had a pre- 
ponderance in the Diet, and it seemed, under it, possible 
to revive the past reality, or to realize the dream of a 
great German empire, it was clearly seen that Austria 
was a tyranny that would crush out all liberties. And 
now that Prussia, with its vital Protestantism and free 
schools, proposes to undertake the reconstruction of 
Germany, and make a nation where there are now 
only the fragmentary possibilities of a great power, why, 
Prussia is a military despot, whose subjects must be 
either soldiers or slaves, and the young emperor at 
Vienna is indeed another Joseph, filled with the most 
tender solicitude for the welfare of the chosen German 
people. 

But to return to the clergy. While the monasteries 
and nunneries are going to the ground in superstition- 
satiu-ated Spain ; while eager workmen are demolishing 
the last hiding-places of monkery, and letting the day- 
light into places that have well kept the frightful secrets 
of three hundred years, and turning the ancient cloister 
demesne into public parks and pleasure-grounds, — the 
Eomish priesthood here, in free Bavaria, seem to imagine 
that they cannot only resist the progress of events, but 
that they can actually bring back the owlish twilight of 
the Middle Ages. The reactionary party in Bavaria 
has, in some of the provinces, a str ng majority; and its 
supporter's and newspapers are bei.igerent and aggres- 
sive. A few words about the politics of Bavaria will 
give you a clew to the general politics of the country. 

The reader of the little newspapers here in Munich 
finds evidence of at least three parties. There is first 
the radical. Its members sincerely desire a united Ger- 
many, and, of course, are friendly to Prussia, hate Napo- 
leon, have little confidence in the Hapsburgs, like to 
read of uneasiness in Paris, and hail any movement that 
overthrows tradition and the prescriptive right of classes. 



136 A TASTE OF ULTRAMONTANISM. 

If its members are Catholic, they are very mildly so ; 
if they are Protestant, they are not enough so to harm 
them ; and, in short, if their religious opinions are not 
as deep as a well, they are certainly broader than a 
church-door. They are the party of free inquiry, liberal 
thought, and progress. Akin to them are what may be 
called the conservative liberals, the majority of whom 
may be Catholics in profession, but are most likely 
rationalists in fact : and with this party the king natu- 
rally affiliates, taking his music devoutly every Sunday 
morning in the AUerheiligenkirche, attached to the 
Residenz, and getting his religion out of Wagner ; for, 
progressive as the youthful king is, he cannot be sup- 
posed to long for a unity which should wheel his throne 
off into the limbo of phantoms. The conservative liberals, 
therefore, while laboring for thorough internal reforms, 
look with little delight on the increasing strength of 
Prussia, and sympathize with the present liberal tenden- 
cies of Austria. Opposed to both these parties is the 
ultramontane, the head of which is the Romish hie- 
rarchy, and the body of which is the inert mass of igno- 
rant peasantry, over whom the influence of the clergy 
seems little shaken by any of the modern moral earth- 
quakes. Indeed, I-doubt if any new ideas will ever pene- 
trate a class of peasants who still adhere to styles of 
costume that must have been ancient when the Turks 
threatened Vienna, which would be highly picturesque if 
they were not painfu' ly ugly, and arrayed in which their 
possessors walk aboit in the broad light of these latter 
days, with entire unconsciousness that they do not belong 
to this age, and that their appearance is as much of an 
anachronism as if the figures should step out of Holbein's 
pictures (which Heaven forbid), or the stone images 
come down from the portals of the cathedral, and walk 
about. The ultramontane party, which, so far as it is 
an intelligent force in modern affairs, is the Romish 
clergy, and nothing more, hears with aversion any hint 
of German unity, listens with dread to the needle-guns 



A TASTE OF ULTRA MONTAJVISM. 137 

at Sadowa, hates Prussia in proportion as it fears her, 
and just now does not draw either with the Austrian 
Government, whose liberal tendencies are exceedingly 
distasteful. It relies upon that great unenlightened 
mass of Catholic people in Southern Germany and in 
Austria proper, one of whose sins is certainly not scep- 
ticism. The practical fight now in Bavaria is on the 
question of education ; the priests being resolved to keep 
the schools of the people in their own control, and the 
liberal parties seeking to widen educational facilities and 
admit laymen to a share in the management of institu- 
tions of learning. Now the school visitors must all be 
ecclesiastics; and although their power is not to be 
dreaded in the cities, where teachers, like other citizens, 
are apt to be liberal, it gives them immense power in the 
rural districts. The election of the Lower House of the 
Bavarian parliament, whose members have a six years' 
tenure of office, which takes place next spring, excites 
uncommon interest ; for the leading issue will be that of 
education. The little local newspapers — and every city 
has a small swarm of them, which are remarkable for the 
absence of news, and an abundance of advertisements — 
have broken out into a style of personal controversy, 
which, to put it mildly, makes me, an American, feel 
quite at home. Both parties are very much in earnest, 
and both speak with a freedom that is, in itself, a very 
hopeful sign. 

The pretensions of the ultramontane clergy are, indeed, 
remarkable enough to attract the attention of others 
besides the liberals of Bavaria. They assume an influence 
and an importance in the ecclesiastical profession, or 
rather an authority, equal to that ever asserted by the 
Church in its strongest days. Perhaps you will get an 
idea of the height of this pretension if I translate a pas- 
sage which the liberal journal here takes from a sermon 
preached in the parish church of Ebersburg, in Ober- 
Dorfen, by a priest, Herr Kooperator Anton Haring, no 
longer ago than Aug. 16, 1868. It reads, "With the 
12* 



138 A TASTE OF ULTRAMONTANISM.- 

power of absolution, Christ has endued the priesthood 
with a might which is terrible to hell, and against whicli 
Lucifer himself cannot stand, — a might which, indeed, 
reaches over into eternity, where all other earthly pow- 
ers find their limit and end, — a might, I say, which 
is able to break the fetters which, for an eternity, were 
forged through the commission of heavy sin. Yes, fur- 
ther, this power of the forgiveness of sins makes the 
priest, in a certain measure, a second God; for God 
alone naturally can forgive sins. And yet this is not the 
highest reach of the priestly might : his power reaches 
still higher ; he compels God himself to serve him. How 
so ? When the priest approaches the altar, in order to 
bring there the holy mass-offering, there, at that moment, 
lifts himself up Jesus Christ, who sits at the right hand 
of the Father, upon his throne, in order to be ready for 
the beck of his priests upon earth. And scarcely does 
the priest begin the words of consecration, than there 
Christ already hovers, surrounded by the heavenly host, 
come down from heaven to earth, and to the altar of 
sacrifice, and changes, upon the words of the priest, the 
bread and wine into his holy flesh and blood, and per- 
mits himself then to be taken up and to lie in the hands 
of the priest, even though the priest is the most sinful 
and the most unworthy. Further, his power surpasses 
that of the highest archangels, and of the Queen of 
Heaven. Right did the holy Franciscus say, 'If I 
should meet a priest and an angel at the same time, I 
should salute the priest first, and then the angel ; because 
the priest is possessed of far higher might and holiness 
than the angel.' " 

The radical journal calls this " ultramontane blas- 
phemy," and, the day after quoting it, adds a charge 
that must be still more annoying to the Herr Kooporator 
Haring than that of blasphemy : it accuses him of pla- 
giarism ; and, to substantiate the charge, quotes almost 
the very same language from a sermon preached in 1 785. 
In this it is boldly claimed that " in heaven, on earth, or 



A TASTE OF ULTRAMONTANISM. 139 

under the earth, there is nothing mightier than a priest, 
except God ; and, to be exact, God himself must obey 
the priest in the mass." And then, in words whicli I 
do not care to translate, the priest is made greater than 
the Virgin Mary, because Christ was only born of the 
Virgin once, while the priest " with five words, as often 
and wherever he will," can " bring forth the Saviour of the 
world." So to-day keeps firm hold of the traditions of 
a hundred years ago, and ultramontanism wisely de- 
fends the last citadel where the Middle- Age super- 
stition makes a stand, — the popular veneration for the 
clergy. 

And the^ clergy take good care to keep up the pomps 
and shows even here in sceptical Munich. It was my 
inestimable privilege the other morning — it was All- 
Saints' Day — to see the archbishop in the old Frauen- 
kirche, the ancient cathedral, where hang tattered ban- 
ners that were captured from the Turks three centuries 
ago, — to see him seated in the choir, overlooked by 
saints and apostles carved in wood by some forgotten 
artist of the fifteenth century. I supposed he was at 
least an archbishop, from the retinue of priests who 
attended and served him, and also from his great size. 
When he sat down, it required a dignitary of considerable 
rank to put on his hat ; and, when he arose to speak a few 
precious words, the effect was visible a good many yards 
from where he stood. At the close of the service he 
went in great state down the centre aisle, preceded by 
the gorgeous beadle — a character that is always awe- 
inspiring to me in these churches, being a cross between 
a magnificent drum-major and a verger — and two per- 
sons in livery, and followed by a train of splendidly- 
attired priests, six of whom bore up his long train of 
purple silk. The whole cortege was resplendent in 
embroidery and ermine ; and as the great man swept 
out of my sight, and was carried On a priestly wave into 
his shining carriage, and the noble footman jumped up 
behind, and he rolled away to his dinner, I stood lean- 



140 A TASTE OF ULTRA MONTANISM. 

ing against a pillar, and reflected if it could be possible 
that that religion could be any thing but genuine which 
had so much genuine ermine. And the organ-notes, 
rolling down the arches, seemed to me to have a very 
ultramontane sound. 



CHANGING QUARTERS. 

PERHAPS it may not interest you to know how we 
moved, that is, changed our apartments. I did not 
see it mentioned in the cable despatches, and it may not be 
generally known, even in Germany ; but, then, the cable 
is so occupied with relating how his Serenity this, and his 
Highness that, and her Loftiness the other one, went out 
doors and came in again, owing to a slight superfluity of 
the liquid element in the atmosphere, that it has no time 
to notice the real movements of the people. And yet, 
so dry are some of these little German newspapers of 
news, that it is refreshing to read, now and then, that the 
king, on Sunday, walked out with the Duke of Hesse 
after dinner (one would like to know if they also had 
sauer-kraut and sausage), and that his prospective mother- 
in-law, the Empress of Russia, who was here the other 
day, on her way home from Como, where she was nearly 
drowned out by the inundation, sat for an hour on Sun- 
day night, after the opera, in the winter garden of the 
palace, enjoying the most easy family intercourse. 

But about moving. Let me tell you that to change 
quarters in the face of a Munich winter, which arrives 
here the 1st of November, is like changing front to the 
enemy just before a battle ; and, if we had perished in the 
attempt, it might have been put upon our monuments, as 
it is upon the out-of-cannon-cast obelisk in the Karolina 
Platz, erected to the memory of the thirty thousand Ba- 
varian soldiers who fell in the disastrous Russian winter 
campaign of Napoleon, fighting against all the interests 

141 



142 CHANGING QUARTERS. 

of Grermany, — " they, too, died for their Fatherland." 
Bavaria happened also to fight on the wrong side at Sa- 
dowa, and I suppose that those who fell there also died 
for Fatherland : it is a way the Germans have of doing, 
and they mean nothing serious by it. But, as I was say- 
ing, to change quarters here as late as November is a 
little difficult, for the wise ones seek to get housed for 
the winter by October : they select the sunny apartments, 
get on the double-windows, and store up wood. The 
plants are tied up in the gardens, the fountains are cov- 
ered over, and the inhabitants go about in furs and the 
heaviest winter clothing long before we should think of 
doing so at home. And they are wise : the snow comes 
early, and, besides, a cruel fog, cold as the grave and 
penetrating as remorse, comes down out of the near 
Tyrol. One morning early in November, I looked out 
of the window to find snow falling, and the ground cov- 
ered with it. There was dampness and frost enough in 
the air to make it cling to all the tree-twigs, and to take 
fantastic shapes on all the queer roofs and the slenderest 
pinnacles and most delicate architectural ornamenta- 
tions. The city spires had a mysterious appearance in 
the gray haze ; and above all, the round-topped towers of 
the old Frauen Kircke, frosted with a little snow, loomed 
up more grandly than ever. When I went around to 
the Hof Garden, where I late had sat in the sun, and 
heard the brown horse-chestnuts drop on the leaves, the 
benches were now full of snow, and the fat and friendly 
fruit-woman at the gate had retired behind glass windows 
into a little shop, which she might well warm by her 
own person, if she radiated heat as readily as she used 
to absorb it on the warm autumn days, when I have 
marked her knitting in the sunshine. 

But we are not moving. The first step we took was 
to advertise our wants in the " Neueste Nachrichten," 
(" Latest News ") newspaper. We desired, if possible, 
admission into some respectable German family, where 
we should be forced to speak German, and in which our 



CHANGING QUARTERS. 143 

society, if I may so express it, would be some compensa- 
tion for our bad grammar. We wished also to live in 
the central part of the city, — in short, in the immediate 
neighborhood of all the objects of interest (which are 
here very much scattered), and to have pleasant rooms. 
In Dresden, where the people are not so rich as in Mu- 
nich, and where different customs prevail, it is custom- 
ary for the best people, I mean the families of university 
professors, for instance, to take in foreigners, and give 
them tolerable food and a liberal education. Here it is 
otherwise. Nearly all families occupy one floor of a 
building, renting just rooms enough for the family, so 
that their apartments are not elastic enough to take in 
strangers, even if they desire to do so. And generally 
they do not. Munich society is perhaps chargeable with 
being a little stiff and exclusive. Well, we advertised 
in the " Neueste Naehrichten." This is the liberal paper 
of Munich. It is a poorly-printed, black-looking daily 
sheet, folded in octavo size, and containing anywhere 
from sixteen to thirty-four pages, more or less, as it hap- 
pens to have advertisements. It sometimes will not have 
more than two or three pages of reading matter. There 
will be a scrap or two of local news, the brief telegrams 
taken from the official paper of the day before, a bit or 
two of other news, and perhaps a short and slashing edi- 
torial on the ultramontane party. The advantage of 
printing and folding it in such small leaves is, that the 
size can be varied according to the demands of adver- 
tisements or news (if the German papers ever find out 
what that is) : so that the publisher is always giving, 
every day, just what it pays to give that day; and the 
reader has his regular quantity of reading matter, and 
does not have to pay for advertising space, which in 
journals of unchangeable form cannot always be used 
profitably. This little journal was started something 
like twenty years ago. It probably spends little for news, 
has only one or, at most, two editors, is crowded with 
advertisements, which are inserted cheap, and costs, de- 



144 CHANGING QUARTERS. 

livered, a little over six francs a year. It circulates in 
the city some thirty-five thousand. There is another 
little paper here of the same size, but not so many leaves, 
called " The Daily Advertiser," with nothing but adver- 
tisements, principally of theatres, concerts, and the daily 
sights, and one page devoted to some prodigious yarn, 
generally concerning America, of which country its read- 
ers must get the most extraordinary and frightful impres- 
sion. The " Nachrichten " made the fortune of its first 
owner, who built himself a fine house out of it, and 
retired to enjoy his wealth. It was recently sold for one 
hundred thousand guldens ; and I can see that it is piling 
up another fortune for its present owner. The Germans, 
who herein show their good sense and the high state of 
civilization to which they have reached, are very free 
advertisers, going to the newspapers with all their wants, 
and finding in them that aid which all interests and all 
sorts of people, from kaiser to kerl, are compelled, in 
these days, to seek in the daily journal. Every German 
town of any size has three or four of these little journals 
of flying leaves, which are excellent papers in every 
respect, except that they look like badly-printed, hand- 
bills, and have very little news and no editorials worth 
speaking of. An exception to these in Bavaria is the 
" Allgemeine Zeitung " of Augsburg, which is old and 
immensely respectable, and is perhaps, for extent of cor- 
respondence and splendidly-written editorials on a great 
variety of topics, excelled by no journal in Europe 
except " The London Times.'* It gives out two editions 
daily, the evening one about the size of " The New-York 
Nation ; " and it has all the telegraphic news. It is 
absurdly old-grannyish, and is malevolent in its pre- 
tended conservatism and impartiality. Yet it circulates 
over forty thousand copies, and goes all over Germany. 

But were we not saying something about moving? 
The truth is, that the best German families did not re- 
spond to our appeal with that alacrity which we had no 
right to expect, and did not exhibit that anxiety for our 



CHANGING QUARTERS. 145 

society which would have been such a pleasant evidence 
of their appreciation of the honor done to the royal city 
of Munich by the selection of it as a residence during 
the most disagreeable months of the year by the adver- 
tising undersigned. Even the young king, whose ap- 
proaching marriage to the Russian princess, one would 
think, might soften his heart, did nothing to win our 
regard, or to show that he appreciated our residence 
" near " his court, and, so far as I know, never read with 
any sort of attention our advertisement, which was com- 
posed with as much care as Goethe's Faust, and prob- 
ably with the use of more dictionaries. And this, when 
he has an extraordinary large Kesidenz, to say nothing 
about other outlying palaces and comfortable places to 
live in, in which I know there are scores of elegantly- 
furnished apartments, which stand idle almost the year 
round, and might as well be let to appreciative strangers, 
who would accustom the rather washy and fierce fres- 
cos on the walls to be stared at. I might have selected 
rooms, say on the court which looks on the exquisite 
bronze fountain, Perseus with the head of Medusa, a 
copy of the one in Florence by Benvenuto Cellini, where 
we could have a southern exposure. Or we might, so it 
would seem, have had rooms by the winter garden, 
where tropical plants rejoice in perennial summer, and 
blossom and bear fruit while a northern winter rage 
without. Yet the king did not see it " by those lamps ; " 
and I looked in vain on the gates of the Residenz for 
the notice so frequently seen on other houses, of apart- 
ments to let. And yet we had responses. The day 
after the announcement appeared, our bell rang per- 
petually ; and we had as many letters as if we had 
advertised for wives innumerable. The German notes 
poured in upon us in a flood ; each one of them contain- 
ing an offer tempting enough to beguile an angel out of 
paradise, at least, according to our translation : they 
proffered us chambers that were positively overheated 
by the flaming sun (which, I can take my oath, only 
13 



146 CHANGING QUARTERS. 

ventures a few feet above the horizon at this season), 
which were friendly in appearance, splendidly furnished, 
and near to every desirable thing, and in which, usually, 
some American family had long resided, and experienced 
a content and happiness not to be felt out of Germany. 

I spent some days in calling upon the worthy frauen 
who made these alluring offers. The visits were full of 
profit to the student of human nature, but profitless 
otherwise. I was ushered into low, dark chambers, small 
and dreary, looking towards the sunless north, which 
I was assured were dehsrhtful and even elegant. I was 
taken up to the top of tall houses, through a smell of 
cabbage that was appalling, to find empty and dreary 
rooms, from which I fled in fright. We were visited by 
so many people who had chambers to rent, that we were 
impressed with the idea that all Munich was to let ; and 
yet, when we visited the places offered, we found they 
were only to be let alone. One of the frauen who did 
us the honor to call, also wrote a note, and enclosed 
a. letter that she had just received from an American- 
gentleman (I make no secret of it that he came from 
Hartford), in which were many kindly expressions for 
her welfare, and thanks for the aid he had received in 
his study of German ; and yet I think her chambers are 
the most uninviting in the entire city. There were 
people who were willing to teach us German, without 
rooms or board ; or to lodge us without giving us German 
or food ; or to feed us, and let us starve intellectually, and 
lodge where we could. 

But all things have an end, and so did our hunt for 
lodgings. I chanced one day in my walk to find, with no 
help from the advertisement, very nearly what we desired, 
— cheerful rooms in a pleasant neighborhood, where 
the sun comes when it comes out at all, and opposite the 
Glass Palace, through- which the sun streams in the after- 
noon with a certain splendor, and almost next door to 
the residence and laboratory of the famous chemist, 
Prof Liebig ; so that we can have our feelings analyzed 



CHANGING QUARTERS. 147 

whenever it is desirable. When we had set up our 
household gods, and a fire was kindled in the tall white 
porcelain family monument, that is called here a stove, 
— and which, by the way, is much more agreeable than 
your hideous, black, and air-scorching cast-iron stoves, — 
and seen that the feather-beds under which we were 
expected to lie were thick enough to roast the half of 
the body, and short enough to let the other half freeze, 
we determined to try for a season the regular German 
cookery, our table heretofore having been served with 
food cooked in the English style with only a slight Ger- 
man flavor. A week of the experiment was quite 
enough. I do not mean to say that the viands served 
us were not good, only that we could not make up our 
minds to eat them. The Germans eat a great deal of 
meat ; and we were obliged to take meat when we pre- 
ferred vegetables. Now, when a deep dish is set before 
you wherein are chunks of pork reposing on stewed 
potatoes, and another wherein a fathomless depth of 
sauer-kraut supports coils of boiled sausage, which, con- 
sidering that you are a mortal and responsible being, 
and have a stomach, will you choose ? Here in Munich, 
nearly all the bread is filled with anise or caraway seed : 
it is possible to get, however, the best wheat bread we 
have eaten in Europe, and we usually have it ; but one 
must maintain a constant vigilance against the inroads 
of the fragrant seeds. Imagine, then, our despair, when 
one day the potato, the one vegetable we had always 
eaten with perfect confidence, appeared stewed with 
caraway-seeds. This was too much for American human 
nature, constituted as it is. Yet the dish that finally 
sent us back to our ordinary and excellent way of living 
is one for which I have no name. It may have been 
compounded at different times, have been the result of 
many tastes or distastes : but there was, after all, a unity 
in it that marked it as the composition of one master 
artist; there was an unspeakable harmony in all its 
flavors and apparently ununitable substances. It looked 



148 CHANGING QUARTERS, 

like a terrapin soup, but it was not. Every dive of the 
spoon into its dark liquid brought up a different object, — 
a junk of unmistakable pork, meat of tlie color of roast 
hare, what seemed to be the neck of a goose, some- 
thing in strings that resembled the rags of a silk dress, 
shreds of cabbage, and what I am quite willing to take 
my oath was a bit of Astrachan fur. If Prof. Liebig 
wishes to add to his reputation, he could do so by analyz- 
ing this dish, and publishing the result to the world. 

And, while we are speaking of eating, it may be in- 
ferred that the Germans are good eaters ; and although 
they do not begin early, seldom taking much more than 
a cup of coffee before noon, they make it up by very sub- 
stantial dinners and suppers. To say nothing of the 
extraordinary dishes of meats which the restaurants 
serve at night, the black-bread and odorous cheese and 
beer which the men take on board in the course of an 
evening would soon wear out a cast-iron stomach in 
America ; and yet I ought to remember the deadly pie 
and the corroding whiskey of my native land. The res- 
taurant life of the people is, of course, different froin 
their home life, and perhaps an evening entertainment 
here is no more formidable than one in America, but it 
is different. Let me give you the outlines of a supper 
to which we were invited the other night : it certainly 
cannot hurt you to read about it. We sat down at eight. 
There were first courses of three sorts of cold meat, 
accompanied with two sorts of salad ; the one, a compo- 
site, with a potato basis, of all imaginable things that 
are eaten. Beer and bread were unlimited. There was 
then roast hare, with some supporting dish, followed by 
jellies of various sorts, and ornamented plates of some- 
thing that seemed unable to decide whether it would be 
jelly or cream ; and then came assorted cake and the 
white wine of the Ehine and the red of Hungary. We 
were then surprised with a dish of fried eels, with a 
sauce. Then came cheese ; and, to crown all, enormous, 
triumphal-looking loaves of cake, works of art in appear- 



CHANGING QUARTERS. 149 

anije, and delicious to the taste. We sat at tlie table till 
twelve o'clock ; but you must not imagine that every- 
body sat still all the time, or that, appearances to the 
contrary notwithstanding, the principal object of the 
entertainment was eating. The songs that were sung 
in Hungarian as well as German, the poems that were 
recited, the burlesques of actors and acting, the imita- 
tions that were inimitable, the take-off of table-tipping 
and of prominent musicians, the wit and constant flow 
of fun, as constant as the good-humor and free hospi- 
tality, the unconstrained ease of the whole evening, — 
these things made the real supper which one remembers 
when the grosser meal has vanished, as all substantial 
things do vanish. 



CHRISTMAS TIME. — MUSIC. 

I OR a month Munich has been preparing for Christ- 
mas. The shop-windows have had a holiday look 
December. I see one every day in which are dis- 
ayed all the varieties of fruits, vegetables, and confec- 
tionery possible to be desired for a feast, done in wax, — 
a most dismal exhibition, and calculated to make the 
adjoining window, which has a little fountain and some 
green plants waving amidst enormous pendent sausages 
and pigs' heads and various disagreeable hashes of 
pressed meat, positively enticing. And yet there are 
some vegetables here that I should prefer to have in wax, 
— for instance, sauer-kraut. The toy windows are 
worthy of study, and next to them the bakers'. A favor- 
ite toy of the season is a little crib, with the Holy Child, 
in sugar or wax, lying in it in the most uncomfortable 
attitude. Babies here are strapped upon pillows, or 
between pillows, and so tied up and wound up that they 
cannot move a muscle, except, perhaps, the tongue ; and 
so, exactly like little mummies, they are carried about 
the street by the nurses, — poor little things, packed away 
so, even in the heat of summer, their little faces looking 
out of the down in a most pitiful fashion. The popular 
toy is a representation, in sugar or wax, of this period 
of life. Generally the toy represents twins, so swathed 
and bound ; and, not infrequently, the bold conception 
of the artist carries the point of the humor so far as to 
introduce triplets, thus sporting with the most dreadful 
possibilities of life. 
150 



CHRISTMAS TIME. — MUSIC. 151 

, The German bakers are very ingenious ; and if they 
could be convinced of this great error, that because 
things are good separately, they must be good in com- 
bination, the produce of their ovens would be much more 
eatable. As it is, they make delicious cake, and of end- 
less variety ; but they also offer us conglomerate forma- 
tions that may have a scientific value, but are utterly 
useless to a stomach not trained in Germany. Of this 
sort, for the most part, is the famous Lebkuchen, a sort 
of gingerbread manufactured in Niirnberg, and sent all 
over Germany : " age does not [seem to] impair, nor 
custom stale its infinite variety." It is very different 
from our simple cake of that name, although it is usually 
baked in flat cards. It may contain nuts or fruit, and is 
spoiled by a flavor of conflicting spices. I should think 
it might be sold by the cord, it is piled up in such quan- 
tities ; and, as it grows old and is much handled, it ac- 
quires that brown, not to say dirty, familiar look, which 
may, for aught I know, be one of its chief recommenda- 
tions. The cake, however, which prevails at this season 
of the year comes from the Tyrol ; and, as the holidays 
approach, it is literally piled up on the fruit-stands. It 
is called Klatzenbrod, and is not a bread at all, but an 
amalgamation of fruits and spices. It is made up into 
small round or oblong forms ; and the top is ornamented, 
in various patterns, with split almond meats. The color 
is a faded black, as if it had been left for some time in 
a country store ; and the weight is just about that of pig- 
iron. I had formed a strong desire, mingled with dread, 
to taste it, which I was not likely to gratify, — one gets 
so tired of such experiments after a time, — when a friend 
sent us a ball of it. There waS' no occasion to call in 
Prof. Liebig to analyze the substance : it is a plain case. 
The black mass contains, cut up and pressed together, 
figs, citron, oranges, raisins, dates, various kinds of nuts, 
cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, and I know not what Other 
spices, together with the inevitable anise and caraway 
seeds. It would make an excellent cannon-ball, and 



152 CHRISTMAS TIME. — MUSIC. 

would be specially fatal if it hit an enemy in the stomach. . 
These seeds invade all dishes. The cooks seem pos- 
sessed of one of the rules of whist, — in case of doubt, 
play a trump : in case of doubt, they always put in 
anise-seed. It is sprinkled profusely in the blackest rye 
bread, it gets into all the vegetables, and even into the 
holiday cakes. 

The extensive Maximilian Platz has suddenly grown 
up into booths and shanties, and looks very much like a 
temporary Western village. There are shops for the 
sale of Christmas articles, toys, cakes, and gimcracks; 
and there are, besides, places of amusement, if one of the 
sorry menageries of sick beasts with their hair half worn 
off can be so classed. One portion of the platz is now 
a lively and picturesque forest of evergreens, an exten- 
sive thicket of large and small trees, many of them 
trimmed with colored and gilt strips of paper. I meet 
in every street persons lugging home their little trees ; 
for it must be a very poor household that cannot have its 
Christmas-tree, on which are hung the scanty store of 
candy, nuts, and fruit, and the simple toys that the 
needy people will pinch themselves otherwise to obtain. 

At this season, usually, the churches get up some 
representations for the children, — the stable at Bethle- 
hem, with the figures of the Virgin and Child, the wise 
men, and the oxen standing by. At least, the churches 
must be put in spic-and-spah order. I confess that I 
like to stray into these edifices, some of them gaudy 
enough when they are, so to speak, off duty, when the 
choir is deserted, and there is only here and there a 
solitary worshipper at his prayers ; unless, indeed, as it 
sometimes happens, when I fancy myself quite alone, I 
come by chance upon a hundred people, in some remote 
corner before a side chapel, where mass is going on, but 
so quietly that the sense of solitude in the church is not 
disturbed. Sometimes, when the place is left entirely to 
myself, and the servants who are putting it to rights, 
and, as it were, shifting the scenes, I get a glimpse of 



CHRISTMAS TIME. — MUSIC. 153 

the reality of all the pomp and parade of the services. 
At first I may be a little shocked with the familiar man- 
ner in which the images and statues and the gilded para- 
phernalia are treated, very different from the stately 
ceremony of the morning, when the priests are at the 
altar, the choir is in the organ-loft, and the people crowd 
nave and aisles. Then every thing is sanctified and 
inviolate. Now, as I loiter here, the old woman sweeps 
and dusts about as if she were in an ordinary crockery 
store : the sacred things are handled without gloves. 
And, lo ! an unclerical servant, in his shirt-sleeves, 
climbs up to the altar, and, taking down the silver-gilded 
cherubs, holds them, head down, by one fat foot, while 
he wipes them off with a damp cloth. To think of sub- 
mitting a holy cherub to the indignity of a damp cloth ! 

One could never say too much about the music here. 
I do not mean that of the regimental bands, or the or- 
chestras in every hall and beer-garden, or that in the 
churches on Sundays, both orchestral and vocal. Nearly 
every day, at half-past eleven, there is a parade by the 
Residenz, and another on the Marian Platz; and at 
each the bands play for half an hour. In the Loggie by 
the palace the music-stands can always be set out, and 
they are used in the platz when it does not storm ; and 
the bands play choice overtures and selections from the 
operas in fine style. The bands are always preceded 
and followed by a great crowd as they march through 
the streets, — people who seem to live only for this half- 
hour in the day, and whom no mud or snow can deter 
from keeping up with the music. It is a little gleam of 
comfort in the day for the most wearied portion of the 
community : I mean those who have nothing to do. 

But the music of which I speak is that of the con- 
servatoire and opera. The Hof Theatre, opera, and con- 
servatoire are all under one royal direction. The latter 
has been recently re-organized with a new director, in 
accordance with the Wagner notions somewhat. The 
young king is cracked about Wagner, and appears to 



154 CHRISTMAS TIME. — MUSIC. 

care little for other music : lie brings out liis operas at 
great expense, and it is the fashion here to like Wagner 
whether he is understood or not. The opera of the 
Meister-Sano-er von Niirnbers;, which was brouo;ht out 
last summer, occupied over five hours in the representa- 
tion, which is unbearable to the Germans, who go to the 
opera at six o'clock or half-past, and expect to be at 
home before ten. His latest opera, which has not yet 
been produced, is founded on the Niebelungen Lied, and 
will take three evenings in the representation, which is 
almost as bad as a Chinese play. The present director 
of the conservatoire and opera, a Prussian, Herr von 
Bulow, is a friend of Wagner. There are formed here 
in town two parties, — the Wagner and the conservative, 
the new and the old, the modern and classical ; only the 
Wagnerites do not admit that their admiration of Beet- 
hoven and the older composers is less than that of 
the others, and so for this reason Bulow has given us 
more music of Beethoven than of any other composer. 
One thing is certain, that the royal orchestra is trained 
to a high state of perfection : its rendition of the grand 
operas and its weekly concerts in the Odeon cannot 
easily be surpassed. The singers are not equal to the 
orchestra, for Berlin and Vienna offer greater induce- 
ments ; but there are people here who regard this orches- 
tra as superlative. They say that the best orchestras in 
the world are in Germany ; that the best in Germany is 
in Munich ; and, therefore, you can see the inevitable 
deduction. We have another parallel syllogism. The 
greatest pianist in the world is Liszt ; but then Herr 
Bulow is actually a better performer than Liszt ; there- 
fore you see again to what you must come. At any rate, 
we are quite satisfied in this provincial capital ; and, if 
there is anywhere bettor music, we don't know it. Bu- 
low's orchestra is not very large, — there are less than 
eighty pieces, — but it is so handled and drilled, that, 
when we hear it give one of the symphonies of Beetho- 
ven or Mendelssohn, there is little left to be desired. 



CHRISTMAS TIME. —MUSIC. 155 

Bulow is a wonderful conductor, — a little man, all nerve 
and fire, and he seems to inspire every instrument. It 
is worth something to see him lead an orchestra : his 
baton is magical ; head, arms, and the whole body are 
in motion ; he knows every note of the compositions ; 
and the precision with which he evokes a solitary note 
out of a distant instrument with a jerk of his rod, or 
brino;s a wail from the concurring!; violins, like the moan- 
ing of a pine forest in winter, with a sweep of his arm, is 
most masterly. About the platform of the Odeon are 
the marble busts of the great composers ; and, while the 
orchestra is giving some of Beethoven's masterpieces, I 
like to fix my eyes on his serious and genius-full face, 
which seems cognizant of all that is passing, and believe 
that he has a posthumous satisfaction in the interpreta- 
tion of his great thoughts. 

The managers of the conservatoire also give vocal con- 
certs, and there are, besides, quartet soirees; so that 
there are few evenings without some attraction. The 
opera alternates with the theatre two or three times a 
week. The singers are, perhaps, not known in Paris 
and London, but some of them are not unworthy to be. 
There is the barytone, Herr Kindermann, who now, at 
the age of sixty-five, has a superb voice and manner, and 
has had few superiors in his time on the German stage. 
There is Frau Dietz, at forty-five, the best of actresses, 
and with a still fresh and lovely voice. -There is Herr 
Nachbar, a tenor, who has a future ; Fraulein Stehle, a 
soprano, young and with an uncommon voice, who enjoys 
a large salary, and was the favorite until another soprano, 
the Malinger, came and turned the heads of king and 
opera habitues. The resources of the Academy are, how- 
ever, tolerably large ; and the practice of pensioning for 
life the singers enables them to keep always a tolerable 
company. This habit of pensioning officials, as well as 
musicians and poets, is very agreeable to the Germans. 
A gentleman the other day, who expressed great surprise 
at the smallness of the salary of our President, said, that, 



IS6 CHRISTMAS TIME. ^ MUSIC. 

of course, Andrew Johnson would receive a pension when 
he retired from office. I could not explain to him how 
comical the idea was to me; but when I think of the 
American people pensioning Andrew Johnson, — well, 
like the jfictitious Yankee in " Mugby Junction," " I laff, 
I du." 

There is some fashion, in a fudgy, quaint way, here in 
Munich ; but it is not exhibited in dress for the opera. 
People go — and it is presumed the music is the attrac- 
tion — in ordinary apparel. They save all their dress 
parade for the concerts ; and the hall of the Odeon is as 
brilliant as provincial taste can make it in toilet. The 
ladies also go to operas and concerts unattended by gen- 
tlemen, and are brought, and fetched away, by their ser- 
vants. There is a freedom and simplicity about this 
which I quite like ; and, besides, it leaves their husbands 
and brothers at liberty to spend a congenial evening in 
the cafes^ beer-gardens, and clubs. But there is always 
a heavy fringe of young officers and gallants both at 
opera and concert, standing in the outside passages. It 
is cheaper to stand, and one can hear quite as well, and 
see more. 



LOOKING FOR WARM 
WEATHER. 



FROM MUNICH TO NAPLES. 

AT all events, saith the best authority, " pray that 
your flight be not in winter ; " and it might have 
added, don't go south if you desire warm weather. In 
January, 1869, I had a little experience of hunting after 
genial skies ; and I will give you the benefit of it in some 
free running notes on my journey from Munich to 
Naples. 

It was the middle of January, at eleven o'clock at 
night, that we left Munich, on a mixed railway train, 
choosing that time, and the slowest of slow trains, that 
we might make the famous Brenner Pass by daylight. It 
was no easy matter, at last, to pull up from the dear old 
city in which we had become so firmly planted, and to 
leave the German friends who made the place like home 
to us. One gets to love Germany and the Germans as 
he does no other country and people in Europe. There 
has been something so simple, honest, genuine, in our 
Munich life, that we look back to it with longing eyes 
from this land of fancy, of hand-organ music and squalid 
splendor. I presume the streets are yet half the day hid 
in a mountain fog ; but I know the superb military bands 
are still playing at noon in the old Marian Platz and in 
the Loggie by the Residenz ; that at half-past six in the 
evening our friends are quietly stepping in to hear the 
opera at the Hof Theatre, where everybody goes to hear 
the music, and nobody for display, and that they will be 
at home before half-past nine, and have despatched the 
servant for the mugs of foaming beer ; I know that they 

159 



i6o I^ROM MUNICH TO NAPLES. 

still hear every week the choice conservatou'e orchestral 
concerts in the Odeon ; and, alas that experience should 
force me to think of it ! I have no doubt that they sip, 
every morning, coffee which is as much superior to that 
of Paris as that of Paris is to that of London ; and that 
they eat the delicious rolls, in comparison with which 
those of Paris are tasteless. I wonder, in this land of 
wine, — and yet it must be so, — if the beer-gardens are 
still filled nightly ; and if it could be that I should sit at 
a little table there, a comely lass would, before I could ask 
for what everybody is presumed to want, place before me 
a tall glass full of amber liquid, crowned with creamy 
foam. Are the handsome officers still sipping their coffee 
in the Cafe Maximilian ; and, on sunny days, is the crowd 
of fashion still streaming down to the Isar, and the high, 
sightly walks and gardens beyond ? 

As I said, it was eleven o'clock of a clear and not very 
severe night ; for Munich had had no snow on the ground 
since November. A deputation of our friends were at 
the station to see us off, and the farewells between the 
gentlemen were in the hearty fashion of the country. I 
know there is a prejudice with us against kissing between 
men ; but it is only a question of taste : and the experi- 
ence of anybody will tell him that the theory that this 
sort of salutation must necessarily be desirable between 
opposite sexes is a delusion. But I suppose it cannot be 
denied that kissing between men was invented in Ger- 
many before they wore full beards. Well, our good-bys 
said, we climbed into our bare cars. There is no way of 
heating the German cars, except by tubes filled with hot 
water, which are placed under the feet, and are called 
foot-warmers. As we slowly moved out over the plain, 
we found it was cold ; in an hour the foot-warmers, not 
hot to start with, were stone cold. You are going to 
sunny Italy, our friends had said : as soon as you pass 
the Brenner you will have sunshine and delightful 
weather. This thought consoled us, but did not warm 
our feet. The Germans, when they travel by rail, wrap 
themselves in furs, and carry foot-sacks. 



FROM MUNICH TO NAPLES, i6i 

We creaked alon.<T, with many stoppings. At two 
o'clock we were at Rosenheim. Rosenheim is a windy 
place, with clear starlight, with a multitude of cars on a 
multiplicity of tracks, and a large, lighted refreshment- 
room, which has a glowing, jolly stove. We stay there 
an hour, toasting by the fire and drinking excellent coffee. 
Groups of Germans are seated at tables playing cards, 
smoking, and taking coflfee. Other trains arrive ; and 
huge men stalk in, from Vienna or Russia, you would 
say, enveloped in enormous fur overcoats, reaching to the 
heels, and with big fur boots coming above the knees, in 
which they move like elephants. Another start, and a 
cold ride with cooling foot-warmers, droning on to Kurf- 
stein. It is five o'clock when we reach Kurfstein, which 
is also a restaurant, with a hot stove, and more Germans 
going on as if it were daytime ; but by this time in the 
morning the coffee had got to be wretched. After an 
hour's waiting, we dream on again, and, before we know 
it, come out of our cold doze into the cold dawn. 
Through the thick frost on the windows we see the faint 
outlines of mountains. Scraping away the incrustation, 
we find that we are in the Tyjol, — high hills on all 
sides, no snow in the valley, a bright morning, and the 
snow peaks are soon rosy in the sunrise. It is just as we 
expected, — little villages under the hills, and slender 
church-spires with brick-red tops. At nine o'clock we 
are in Innsbruck, at the foot of the Brenner. No snow 
yet. It must be charming here in the summer. 

Durino; the night we have got out of Bavaria. The 
waiter at the restaurant wants us to pay him nmety 
kreuzers for our coffee, which is only six kreuzers a cup 
in Munich. Remembering that it takes one hundred 
kreuzers to make a gulden in Austria, I launch out a 
Bavarian gulden, and expect ten kreuzers in change. I 
have heard that sixty Bavarian kreuzers are equal to 
one hundred Austrian ; but this waiter explains to me 
that my gulden is only good for ninety kreuzers. I, in 
my turn, explain to the waiter that it is better than the 
13* 



i62 FROM MUNICH TO NAPLES, 

coffee ; but we come to no understanding, and I give up, 
before I begin, trying to understand the Austrian cur- 
rency. During the day I get my pockets full of coppers, 
which are very convenient to take in change, but appear 
to have a very slight purchasing power in Austria even, 
and none at all elsewhere, and the only use for which I 
have found is to give to Italian beggars. One of these 
pieces satisfies a beggar when it drops into his hat ; and 
then it detains him long enough in the examination of it, 
so that your carriage has time to get so far away that his 
renewed pursuit is usually unavailing. 

The Brenner Pass repaid us for the pains we had 
taken to see it, especially as the sun shone and took the 
frost from our windows, and we encountered no snow on 
the track ; and, indeed, the fall was not deep, except on 
the high peaks about us. Even if the engineering of the 
road were not so interesting, it was something to be again 
amidst mountains that can boast a height of ten thousand 
feet. After we passed the summit, and began the zigzag 
descent, we were on a sharp lookout for sunny Italy. I 
expected to lay aside my heavy overcoat, and sun myself 
at the first station among the vineyards. Instead of that, 
we bade good-by to bright sky, and plunged into a snow- 
storm, and, so greeted, drove down into the narrow 
gorges, whose steep slopes we could see were terraced to 
the top, and planted with vines. We could distinguish 
enough to know that, with the old Roman ruins, the 
churches and convent towers perched on the crags, and 
all, the scenery in summer must be finer than that of the 
Rhine, especially as the vineyards here are picturesque, 
— the vines being trained so as to hide and clothe the 
ground with verdure. 

It was four o'clock when we reached Trent, and colder 
than on top of the Brenner. As the Council, owing to 
the dead state of its members for now three centuries, ■ 
was not in session, we made no long tarry. We went 
into the magnificent large refresliment-room to get warm ; 
but it was as cold as a New-England barn. I asked the 



FROM MUNICH TO NAPLES. 163 

proprietor if we could not get at a fire ; but he insisted 
that the room was warm, — that it was heated with a fur- 
nace, and that he burned good stove-coal, and pointed 
to a register high up in the wall. Seeing that I looked 
incredulous, he insisted that I should test it. Accord- 
ingly, I climbed upon a table, and reached up my hand. 
A faint warmth came out ; and I gave it up, and congrat- 
ulated the landlord on his furnace. But the register 
had no effect on the great hall. You might as well try 
to heat the dome of St. Peter's with a lucifcr-match. At 
dark, Allah be praised ! we reached Ala, where we went 
through the humbug of an Italian custom-house, and had 
our first glimpse of Italy in the picturesque-looking idlers 
in red-tasselled caps, and the jabber of a strange tongue. 
The snow turned into a cold rain : the foot-warmers, we 
having reached the sunny lands, could no longer be 
afforded ; and we shivered along, till nine o'clock, dark 
and rainy, brought us to Verona. We emerged from the 
station to find a crowd of omnibuses, carriages, drivers, 
runners, and people anxious to help us, all vociferating in 
the highest key. Amidst the usual Italian clamor about 
nothing, we gained our hotel omnibus, and sat there for 
ten minutes watching the dispute over our luggage, and 
serenely listening to the angry vituperations of policemen 
and drivers. It sounded like a revolution, but it was only 
the ordinary Italian way of doing things ; and we were at 
last rattling away over the broad pavements. 

Of course, we stopped at a palace turned hotel, drove 
into a court with double flights of high stone and marble 
stairways, and were hurried up to the marble-mosaic 
landing by an active boy, and, almost before we could ask 
for rooms, were shown into a suite of magnificent apart- 
ments. I had a glimpse of a garden in the rear, — 
flowers and plants, and a balcony up which I suppose 
Romeo climbed to hold that immortal love-prattle with 
the lovesick Juliet. Boy began to light the candles. 
Asked in English the price of such fine rooms. Reply in 
Italian. Asked in German. Reply in Italian. Asked in 



i64 FROM MUNICH TO NAPLES, 

French, with the same result. Other servants appeared, 
each with a piece of baggage. Other candles were 
lighted. Everybody talked in chorus. The landlady, a 
woman of elegant manners and great command of her 
native tongue, appeared with a candle, and joined in the 
melodious confusion. What is the price of these rooms ? 
More jabber, more servants bearing lights. We seemed 
suddenly to have come into an illumination and a private 
lunatic asylum. The landlady and her troop grew more 
and more voluble and excited. Ah, then, if these rooms 
do not suit the signor and signoras, there are others ; 
and we were whisked off to apartments yet grander, — 
great suites with high, canopied beds, mirrors, and furni- 
ture that was luxurious a hundred years ago. The 
price ? Again a torrent of Italian ; servants pouring in, 
lights flashing, our baggage arriving, until, in the tumult, 
hopeless of any response to our inquiry for a servant who 
could speak any thing but Italian, and when we had 
decided, in despair, to hire the entire estabHshment, a 
waiter appeared who was accomplished in all languages, 
the row subsided, and we were left alone in our glory, 
and soon in welcome sleep forgot our desperate search 
for a warm climate. 

The next day it was rainy and not warm ; but the sun 
came out occasionally, and we drove about to see some 
of the sights. The first Italian town which the stranger 
sees he is sure to remember, the out-door life of the peo- 
ple is so different from that at the North. It is the 
fiction in Italy that it is always summer ; and the people 
sit in the open market-place, shiver in the open door- 
ways, crowd into corners where the sun comes, and try 
to keep up the beautiful pretence. The picturesque 
groups of idlers and trafl3.ckers were more interesting to 
us than the palaces with sculptured fronts and old Ro- 
man busts, or tombs of the Scaligers, and old gates. Per- 
haps I ought to except the wonderful and perfect Roman 
amphitheatre, over every foot of which a handsome boy 
in rags followed us, looking over every wall that we 



FROM MUNICH TO NAPLES. 165 

looked over, peering into every hole that we peered 
into, thus showing his fellowship with us, and at every 
pause planting himself before us, and throwing a somer- 
set, and then extending his greasy cap for coppers, as 
if he knew that the modern mind ought not to dwell 
too exclusively on hoary antiquity without some relief. 

Anxious, as I have said, to find the sunny South, we 
left Verona that afternoon for Florence, by way of Padua 
and Bologna. The ride to Padua was tJarough a plain 
at this season dreary enough, were it not, here and there, 
for the abrupt little hills and the snowy Alps, which 
were always in sight, and towards sundown and between 
showers transcendently lovely in a purple and rosy light. 
But nothing now could be more desolate than the rows 
of unending mulberry-trees, pruned down to the stumps, 
through which we rode all the afternoon. I suppose 
they look better when the branches grow out with the 
tender leaves for the silk-worms, and when they are 
clothed with grapevines. Padua was only to us a name. 
There we turned south, lost mountains and the near 
hills, and had nothing but the mulberry flats and ditches 
of water, and chilly rain and mist. It grew unpleasant 
as we went south. At dark we were riding slowly, very 
slowly, for miles through a country overflowed with 
water, out of which trees and houses loomed up in a 
ghastly show. At all the stations soldiers were getting 
on board, shouting and singing discordantly choruses 
from the operas ; for there was a rising at Padua, and 
one feared at Bologna the populace getting up insur- 
rections against the enforcement of the grist-tax, — a tax 
which has made the Government very unpopular, as it 
falls principally upon the poor. 

Creeping along at such a slow rate, we reached Bologna 
too late for the Florence train. It was eight o'clock, and 
still raining. The next train went at two o'clock in the 
morning, and was the best one for us to take. We had 
supper in an inn near by, and a fair attempt at a fire in 
our parlor. I sat before it, and kept it as lively as pos- 



i66 FROM MUNICH TO NAPLES. 

sible, as the hours wore away, and tried to make believe 
that I was ruminating on the ancient greatness of Bo- 
logna and its famous university, some of whose chairs 
had been occupied by women, and upon the fact that it 
was on a little island in the Reno, just below here, that 
Octavius and Lepidus and Mark Antony formed the 
second Triumvirate, which put an end to what little 
Kberty Rome had left ; but in reality I was thinking of 
the draught on my back, and the comforts of a sunny 
clime. But the time came at length for starting ; and in 
luxurious cars we finished the night very comfortably, 
and rode into Florence at eight in the morning to find, 
as we had hoped, on the other side of the Apennines, a 
sunny sky and balmy air. 

As this is strictly a chapter of travel and weather, I 
may not stop to say how impressive and beautiful Flor- 
ence seemed to us ; how bewildering in art treasures, 
which one sees at a glance in the streets ; or scarcely to 
hint how lovely were the Boboli Gardens behind the 
Pitti Palace, the roses, geraniums, &c., in bloom, the 
birds singing, and all in a soft, dreamy air. The next 
day was not so genial ; and we sped on, following our 
original intention of seeking the summer in winter. In 
order to avoid trouble with baggage and passports in 
Rome, we determined to book through for Naples, 
making the trip in about twenty hours. We started at 
nine o'clock in the evening, and I do not recall a more 
thoroughly uncomfortable journey. It grew colder as 
the night wore on, and we went farther south. Late in 
the morning we were landed at the station outside of 
Rome. There was a general appearance of ruin and 
desolation. The wind blew fiercely from the hills, and 
the snow-flakes from the flying clouds added to the gene- 
ral chilliness. There was no chance to get even a cup 
of coffee, and we waited an hour in the cold car. If I 
had not been so half frozen, the consciousness that I was 
actually on the outskirts of the Eternal City, that I saw 
the Campagna and the aqueducts, that yonder were the 



FROM MUNICH TO NAPLES. 167 

Alban Hills, and that every foot of soil on which I looked 
was saturated with history, would have excited me. 
The sun came out here and there as we went south, and 
we caught some exquisite lights on the near and snowy 
hills ; and there was something almost homelike in the 
miles and miles of olive orchards, that recalled the apple- 
trees, but for their shining silvered leaves. And yet 
nothing could be more desolate than the brown marshy 
ground, the brown hillocks, with now and then a shabby 
stone hut or a bit of ruin, and the flocks of sheep shiv- 
ering near their corrals, and their shepherd, clad in 
sheepskin, as his ancestor was in the time of Eomulus, 
leaning on his staff, with his back to the wind. Now 
and then a white town perched on a hillside, its houses 
piled above each other, relieved the eye ; and I could 
imagine that it might be all the poets have sung of it, 
in the spring, though the Latin poets, I am convinced, 
have wonderfully imposed on us. 

To make my long story short, it happened to be colder 
next morning at Naples than it was in Germany. The 
sun shone ; but the north-east wind, which the natives 
poetically call the Tramontane, was blowing, and the 
white smoke of Vesuvius rolled towards the sea. It 
would only last three days, it was very unusual, and all 
that. The next day -it was colder, and the next colder 
yet. Snow fell, and blew about unmelted : I saw it in 
the streets of Pompeii. The fountains were frozen, 
icicles hung from the locks of the marble statues in the 
Chiaia. And yet the oranges glowed like gold amono- 
their green leaves ; the roses, the heliotrope, the gera° 
mums, bloomed in all the gardens. It is the most con- 
tradictory climate. We lunched one day, sittino- in our 
open carriage in a lemon grove, and near at hand the 
L.ucrine Lake was half frozen over. We feasted our eyes 
on the brilliant light and color on the sea, and the 
lovely outlined mountains round the shore, and waited 
for a change of wind. The Neapolitans declare that 
they have not had such weather in twenty years. It is 
scarcely one's ideal of balmy Italy. 



i68 FROM MUNICH TO NAPLES. 

Before the weather changed, I began to feel in this 
great Naples, with its roaring population of over half a 
million, very much like the sailor I saw at the American 
consul's, who applied for help to be sent home, claiming 
to be an American. He was an oratorical bummer, and 
told his story with all the dignity and elevated language 
of an old Roman. He had been cast away in London. 
How cast away ? Oh ! it was all along of a boarding- 
house. And then he found himself shipped on an 
English vessel, and he had lost his discharge-papere ; 
and " Listen, your honor," said he, calmly extending his 
right hand, " here I am cast away on this desolate island, 
with nothing before me but wind and weather." 



RAVENNA. 



A DEAD CITY. 

EAVENNA is so remote from the route of general 
travel in Italy, that I am certain you can have no 
late news from there, nor can I bring you any thing much 
later than the sixth century. Yet, if you were to see 
Ravenna, you would say that that is late enough. I am 
surprised that a city which contains the most interesting 
early Christian churches and mosaics, is the richest in 
undisturbed specimens of early Christian art, and con- 
tains the only monuments of Roman emperors still in 
their original positions, should be so seldom visited. 
Ravenna has been dead for some centuries ; and, be- 
cause nobody has cared to bury it, its ancient monuments 
are yet above ground. Grass grows in its wide streets, 
and its houses s'tand in a sleepy, vacant contemplation 
of each other : the wind must like to mourn about its 
silent squares. The, waves of the Adriatic once brought 
the commerce of the East to its wharves ; but the 
deposits of the Po and the tides have, in process of time, 
made it an inland town, and the sea is four miles away. 
In the time of Augustus, Ravenna was a favorite 
Roman port and harbor for fleets of war and merchan- 
dise. There Theodoric, the ^reat king of the Goths, 
set up his palace, and there is his enormous mausoleum. 
As early as A.D. 44 it became an episcopal see, with 
St. Apollinaris, a disciple of St. Peter, for its bishop. 
There some of the later Roman emperors fixed their 
residences, and there they repose. In and about it 
revolved the adventurous Ufe of Galla Placidia, a wo- 

171 



172 A DEAD CITY. 

man of considerable talent and no principle, the daugh- 
ter of Theodosius (the great Theodosius, who subdued 
the Arian heresy, the first emperor baptized in the 
true faith of the Trinity, the last who had a spark of 
genius), the sister of one emperor, and the mother 
of another, — twice a slave, once a queen, and once an 
empress; and she, too, rests there in the great mau- 
soleum builded for lier. There, also, lies Dante, in his 
tomb " by the upbraiding shore ; " rejected once of un- 
grateful Florence, and forever after passionately longed 
for. There, in one of the earliest Christian churches in 
existence, are the fine mosaics of the Emperor Justinian, 
and Theodora, the handsome courtesan whom he raised 
to the dignity and luxury of an empress on his throne in 
Constantinople. There is the famous forest of pines, 
stretching unbroken twenty miles down the coast to 
Rimini, in whose cool and breezy glades Dante and 
Boccaccio walked and meditated, which Dryden has 
commemorated, and Byron has invested with the fas^ 
cination of his genius ; and under the whispering boughs 
of which moved the glittering cavalcade which fetched 
the bride to Kimini, — the fair Francesca, whose sinful 
confession Dante heard in hell. 

We went down to Ravenna from Bologna one after- 
noon, through a country level and rich, riding along 
toward hazy evening, the land getting flatter as we pro- 
ceeded (you know, there is a difierence between level 
and flat), through interminable mulberry-trees and vines, 
and fields with the tender green of spring, with church- 
spires in the rosy horizon ; on till the meadows became 
marshes, in which millions of frogs sang the overture of 
the opening year. Our arrival, I have reason to believe, 
was an event in the old town. We had a crowd of 
mouldy loafers to witness it at the station, not one of 
whom had ambition enough to work to earn a sou by 
lilting our travelling-bags. We had our hotel to our- 
selves, and wished that anybody else had it. The rival 
house was quite aware of our advent, and watched us with 



A DEAD CITY. 173 

jealous eyes ; and we, in turn, looked wistfully at it, for 
our own food was so scarce that, as an old traveller says, 
we feared tliat we shouldn't have enough, until we saw 
it on the table, when its quality made it appear too much. 
The next morning, when I sallied out to hire a convey- 
ance, I was an object of interest to the entire population, 
who seemed to think it very odd that any one should 
walk about and explore the quiet streets. If I were to 
describe Ravenna, I should say that it is as flat as Hol- 
land and as lively as New London. There are broad 
streets, with high houses, that once were handsome, 
palaces that were once the abode of luxury, gardens 
that still bloom, and churches by the score. It is an 
open gate through which one walks unchallenged into 
the past, with little to break the association with the early 
Christian ages, their monuments undimmed by time, un- 
touched by restoration and innovation, the whole struck 
with ecclesiastical death. With all that we saw that 
day, — churches, basilicas, mosaics, statues, mausoleums, 
— I will not burden these pages ; but I will set down 
enough to give you the local color, and to recall some 
of the most interesting passages in Christian history in 
this out-of-the-way city on the Adriatic. 

Our first pilgrimage was to the Church of St. Apol- 
linare Nuova ; but why it is called new I do not know, 
as Theodoric built it, for an Arian cathedral in about 
the year 500. It is a noble interior, having twenty-four 
inarble columns of gray Cippolino, brought from Con- 
stantinople, with composite capitals, on each of which is 
an impost with Latin crosses sculptured on it. These 
columns support round arches, which divide the nave 
from the aisles, and on the whole length of the wall of 
the nave so supported are superb mosaics, full-length 
fi:^ures, in colors as fresh as if done yesterday, though 
they were executed thirteen hundred years ago. The 
mosaic on the left side — which is, perhaps, the finest 
oue of the period in existence — is interestmg on an- 
other account. It represents the city of Classis, with 
15* 



174 A DEAD CITY. 

sea and ships, and a long procession of twenty-two 
virgins presenting offerings to the Virgin and Child, 
seated on a throne. The Virgin is surrounded by 
angels, and has a glory round her head, which shows 
that homage is being paid to her. It has been supposed, 
from the early monuments of Christian art, that the 
worship of the Virgin is of comparatively recent origin ; 
but this mosaic would go to show that Mariolatry was 
established before the end of the sixth century. Near 
this church is part of the front of the palace of Theo- 
doric, in which the Exarchs and Lombard kings sub- 
sequently resided. Its treasures and marbles Char- 
lemagne carried off to Germany. 



DOWN TO THE PINETA. 

\ ITE drove three miles beyond tlie city, to the 
VV Church of St. Apollinare ia Classe, a lonely edi- 
fice in a waste of marsh, a grand old basilica, a purer 
specimen of Christian art than Rome or any other Italian 
town can boast. Just outside the city gate stands a 
Greek cross on a small fluted column, which marks the 
site of the once magnificent Basilica of St. Laurentius, 
which was demolished in the sixteenth century, its stone 
built into a new church in town, and its rich marbles car- 
ried to all-absorbing Rome. It was the last relic of the old 
port of Caesarea, famous since the time of Augustus. A 
marble column on a green meadow is all that remains 
of a once prosperous city. Our road lay through the 
marshy plain, across an elevated bridge over the slug- 
gish united stream of the Ronco and Montone, from 
which there is a wide view, including the Pineta (or 
Pine Forest), the Church of St. Apollinare in the midst 
of rice-fields and marshes, and on a clear day the Alps 
and Apennines. 

I can imagine nothing more desolate than this soli- 
tary church, or the approach to it. Laborers were 
busy spading up the heavy, wet ground, or digging 
trenches, which instantly filled with water, for the whole 
country was afloat. The frogs greeted us with clamor- 
ous chorus out of their slimy pools, and the mosquitoes 
attacked us as we rode along. I noticed about on 
the bogs, wherever they could find standing-room, half- 
naked wretches, with long spears, having several prongs, 

175 



176 DOWN TO THE PINETA. 

like tridents, which they thrust into the grass and shal- 
low water. Callins^ one of them to us, we found that 
his business was fishing, and that he forked out very 
fat and edible-looking fish with his trident. Shaggy, 
undersized horses were wading in the water, nipping 
ofi" the thin spears of grass. Close to the church is a 
rickety farmhouse. If I lived there, I would as lief be 
a fish as a horse. 

The interior of this primitive old basilica is lofty and 
imposing, with twenty-four handsome columns of the 
gray Cippolino marble, and an elevated high altar and 
tribune, decorated with splendid mosaics of the sixth 
century, — biblical subjects, in all the stiff faithfulness 
of the holy old times. The marble floor is green and 
damp and sHppery. Under the tribune is the crypt, 
where the body of St. Apollinaris used to lie (it is now 
under the high altar above) ; and, as I desired to see 
where he used to rest, I walked in. I also walked into 
about six inches of water, in the dim, irreligious light ; 
and so made a cold-water Baptist devotee of myself. In 
the side aisles are wonderful old sarcophagi, containing 
the ashes of archbishops of Ravenna, so old that the 
owners' names are forgotten of two of them, which shows 
that a man may build a tomb more enduring than his 
memory. The sculptured bas-reliefs are very interest- 
ing, being early Christian emblems and curious devices, 
— symbols of sheep, palms, peacocks, crosses, and the 
four rivers of Paradise flowing down in stony streams 
from stony sources, and monograms, and pious rebuses. 
At the entrance of the crypt is an open stone book, called 
the Breviary of Gregory the Great. Detached from the 
church is the Bell Tower, a circular campanile of a sort 
peculiar to Ravenna, which adds to the picturesqueness 
of the pile, and suggests the notion that it is a mast 
unshipped from its vessel, the church, which consequently 
stands there water-logged, with no power to catch any 
wind, of doctrine or other, and move. I forgot to say 
that the basilica was launched in the year 534. 



DOWN TO THE PINETA. 177 

A little weary -with the good but damp old Christians, 
•we ordered our driver to continue across the marsh to 
the Pineta, whose dark fringe bounded all our horizon 
toward the Adriatic. It is the largest unbroken forest in 
Italy, and by all odds the most poetic in itself and its 
associations. It is twenty-five miles long, and from one 
to three in breadth, a free growth of stately pines, whose 
boughs are full of music and sweet odors, — a succession 
of lovely glades and avenues, with miles and miles of 
drives over the springy turf At the point where we 
entered is a farmhouse. Laborers had been gathering 
the cones, which were heaped up in immense windrows, 
hundreds of feet in length. Boys and men were busy 
pounding out the seeds from the cones. The latter are 
used for fuel, and the former are pressed for their oil. 
They are also eaten : we have often had them served at 
hotel-tables, and found them rather tasteless, but not 
unpleasant. The turf, as we drove into the recesses of 
the forest, was thickly covered with wild-flowers, of many 
colors and delicate forms ; but we liked best the violets, 
for they reminded us of home, though the driver seemed 
to think them less valuable than the seeds of the pine- 
cones. A lovely day and history and romance united 
to fascinate us with the place. We were driving over 
the spot where, eighteen centuries ago, the Roman fleet 
used to ride at anchor. Here, it is certain, the gloomy 
spirit of Dante found congenial place for meditation, and 
the gay Boccaccio material for fiction. Here for hours, 
day after day, Byron used to gallop his horse, giving 
vent to that restless impatience which could not all 
escape from his fiery pen, hearing those voices of a past 
and dead Italy which he, more truthfully and patheti- 
cally than any other poet, has put into living verse. 
The driver pointed out what is called Byron's Path, 
where he was wont to ride. Everybody here, indeed, 
knows of Byron ; and I think his memory is more secure 
than any saint of them all in their stone boxes, — partly 
because his poetry has celebrated the region, perhaps 



178 DOWN TO THE PINETA. 

rather from the perpetuated tradition of his generosity. 
No foreigner was ever so popular as he while he lived at 
Ravenna. At least, the people say so now, since they 
find it so profitable to keep his memory alive and to point 
out his haunts. The Italians, to be sure, know how to 
make capital out of poets and heroes, and are quick to 
learn the curiosity of foreigners, and to gratify it for a 
compensation. But the evident esteem in which Byron's 
memory is held in the Armenian monastery of St. 
Lazzare, at Venice, must be otherwise accounted- for. 
The monks keep his library-room and table as they 
were when he wrote there, and like to show his portrait, 
and tell of his quick mastery of the difficult Armenian 
tongue. We have a notable example of a Person who 
became a monk when he was sick ; but Byron accom- 
plished too much work during the few months he was on 
the Island of St. Lazzare, both in original composition 
and in translating English into Armenian, for one phy- 
sically ruined and broken. 



DANTE AND BYRON. 

THE pilgrim to Ravenna, wlio has any idea of what 
is due to the genius of Dante, will be disappointed 
when he approaches his tomb. Its situation is in a not 
very conspicuous corner, at the foot of a narrow street, 
bearing the poet's name, and beside the Church of San 
Francisco, which is interesting as containing the tombs 
of the Polenta family, whose hospitality to the wander- 
ing exile has rescued their names from oblivion. Op- 
posite the tomb is the shabby old brick house of the 
Polentas, where Dante passed many years of his life. 
It is tenanted now by all sorts of people, and a dirty 
carriage-shop in the courtyard kills the poetry of it. 
Dante died in 1321, and was at first buried in the neigh- 
boring church ; but this tomb, since twice renewed, was 
erected, and his body removed here, in 1482. It is a 
square stuccoed structure, stained light green, and cov- 
ered by a dome, — a tasteless monument, embellished 
with stucco medallions; inside, of the poet, of Virgil, 
of Brunetto Latini, the poet's master, and of his patron, 
Guido da Polenta. On the sarcophagus is the epitaph, 
composed in Latin by Dante himself, who seems to have 
thought, with Shakspeare, that for a poet to make his 
own epitaph was the safest thing to do. Notwithstand- 
ing the mean appearance of this sepulchre, there is none 
in all the soil of Italy that the traveller from America 
will visit with deeper interest. Near by is the house 
where Byron first resided in Ravenna, as a tablet re- 
cords. 

179 



i8o DANTE AND BYRON 

The people here preserve all the memorials of Byron ; 
and, I should judge, hold his memory in something like 
afiection. The Palace Guiccioli, in which he subse- 
quently resided, is in another part of the town. He 
spent over two years in Ravenna, and said he preferred 
it to any place in Italy. Why I cannot see ; unless it 
was reinote from the route of travel, and the desolation 
of it was congenial to him. Doubtless he loved these 
wide, marshy expanses on the Adriatic, and especially 
the great forest of pines on its shore ; but Byron was 
apt to be governed in his choice of a residence by 
the woman with whom he was intimate. The palace 
was certainly pleasanter than his gloomy house in the 
Strada di Porta Sisi, and the society of the Countess 
Guiccioli was rather than otherwise a stimulus to his 
literary activity. At her suggestion he wrote the Pro- 
phecy of Dante ; and the translation of Francesca da 
Kimini was " executed at Ravenna, where, five centuries 
before, and in the very house in which the unfortunate 
lady was born, Dante's poem had been composed." 
Some of his finest poems were also produced here, ■=— 
poems for which Venice is as grateful as Ravenna. 
Here he wrote " Marino Faliero," " The Two Foscari," 
« Morganti Maggiore," " Sardanapalus," " The Blues," 
the fifth canto of " Don Juan," " Cain," " Heaven and 
Earth," and " The Vision of Judgment." I looked in 
at the court of the palace, — a pleasant, quiet place, — 
where he used to work, and tried to guess which were 
the windows of his apartments. The sun was shining 
brightly, and a bird was singing in the court ; but there 
was no other sign of life, nor any thing to remind one 
of the profligate genius who was so long a guest here. 



RESTING-PLACE OF C^SARS. — PIC- 
TURE OF A BEAUTIFUL HERETIC. 

"V7"ERY different from the tomb of Dante, and dif- 
V ferent in the associations it awakes, is the Ro- 
tunda or Mausoleum of Theodoric the Goth, outside 
the Porta Serrata, whose daughter, Amalasuntha, as it 
is supposed, about the year 530, erected this imposing 
structure as a certain place " to keep his memory whole 
and mummy hid " forever. But the Goth had not lain 
in it long before Arianism went out of fashion quite, and 
the zealous Roman Catholics despoiled his costly sleep- 
ing-place, and scattered his ashes abroad. I do not 
know that any dead person has lived in it since. The 
tomb is still a very solid affair, — a rotunda built of solid 
blocks of limestone, and resting on a ten-sided base, 
each side having a recess surmounted by an arch. The 
upper story is also decagonal, and is reached by a flight 
of modern stone steps. The roof is composed of a single 
block of Istrian limestone, scooped out like a shallow 
bowl inside ; and, being the biggest roof-stone I ever 
saw, I will give you the dimensions. It is thirty-six feet 
in diameter, hollowed out to the depth of ten feet, four 
feet thick at the centre, and two feet nine inches at the 
edges, and is estimated to weigh two hundred tons. 
Amalasuntha must have had help in getting it up there. 
The lower story is partly 'under water. The green grass 
of the enclosure in which it stands is damp enough for 
frogs. An old woman opened the iron gate to let us in. 
Whether she was any relation of the ancient proprietor, 
16 181 



l82 RESTING-PLACE OF CMSARS. 

I did not inquire ; but she had so much trouble in turn- 
ing the key in the rusty lock, and letting us in, that I 
presume we were the only visitors she has had for some 
centuries. 

Old women abound in Ravenna ; at least, she was not 
young who showed us the mausoleum of Galla Placidia. 
Placidia was also prudent and foreseeing, and built this 
once magnificent sepulchre for her own occupation. It 
is in the form of a Latin cross, forty-six feet in length 
by about forty in width. The floor is paved with rich 
marbles ; the cupola is covered with mosaics of the time 
of the empress ; and in the arch over the door is a fine 
representation of the Good Shepherd. Behind the altar 
is the massive sarcophagus of marble (its cover of silver 
plates was long ago torn off) in which are literally the 
ashes of the empress. She was immured in it as a mummy, 
in a sitting position, clothed in imperial robes ; and there 
the ghastly corpse sat in a cypress-wood chair, to be looked 
at by anybody who chose to peep through the aperture, 
for more than eleven hundred years, till one day, in 1577, 
some children introduced a lighted candle, perhaps out 
of compassion for her who sat so long in darkness, when 
her clothes caught fire, and she was burned up, — a 
warning to all children not to play with a dead and dry 
empress. In this resting-place are also the tombs of 
Honorius II., her brother, of Constantius III., her sec- 
ond husband, and of Honoria, her daughter. There are 
no other undisturbed tombs of the Csesars in existence. 
Hers is almost the last, and the very small last, of a 
great succession. What thoughts of a great empire in 
ruins do not force themselves on one in the confined 
walls of this little chamber I What a woman was she 
whose ashes lie there ! She saw and aided the ruin of 
the empire ; but it may be said of her, that her vices 
were greater than her misfortunes. And what a story 
is her life ! Born to the purple, educated in the palace 
at Constantinople, accomplished but not handsome, at the 
age of twenty she was in Rome when Alaric besieged it. 



PICTURE OF A BEAUTIFUL HERETIC. 183 

Carried off captive by the Goths, she became the not 
unwilling object of the passion of King Adolphus, who at 
length married her at Narbonne. At the nuptials the 
king, in a Roman habit, occupied a seat lower than hers, 
while she sat on a throne habited as a Roman empress, 
and received homage. Fifty handsome youths bore to 
her in each hand a dish of gold, one filled with coin, and 
the other with precious stones, — a small part only, these 
hundred vessels of treasure, of the spoils the Goths 
brought from her country. When Adolphus, who never 
abated his fondness for his Roman bride, was assassinated 
at Barcelona, she was treated like a slave by his as- 
sassins, and driven twelve miles on foot before the horse 
of his murderer. Ransomed at length for six hundred 
thousand measures of wheat by her brother Honorius, 
who handed her over struggling to Constantius, one of 
his generals. But, once married, her reluctance ceased ; 
and she set herself to advance the interests of herself 
and husband, ruling him as she had done the first one. 
Her purpose was accomplished when he was declared 
joint emperor with Honorius. He died shortly after ; 
and scandalous stories of her intimacy with her brother 
caused her removal to Constantinople ; but she came 
back again, and reigned long as the regent of her son, 
Valentinian HI., a feeble youth, who never grew to have 
either passions or talents, and was very likely, as was 
said, enervated by his mother in dissolute indulgence, 
so that she might be supreme. But she died at Rome 
in 450, much praised for her orthodoxy and her devotion 
to the Trinity. And there was her daughter, Honoria, 
who ran off with a chamberlain, and afterward offered 
to throw herself into the arms of Attila, who wouldn't 
take her as a gift at first, but afterward demanded her, 
and fought to win her and her supposed inheritance. 
But they were a bad lot altogether ; and it is no credit 
to a Christian of the nineteenth century to stay in this 
tomb so long. 

Near this mausoleum is the magnificent Basilica of St. 



l84 RESTING-PLACE OF CMSARS, 

Vitale, built in the reign of Justinian, and consecrated in 
547. I was interested to see it because it was erected 
in confessed imitation of St. Sophia, at Constantinople, 
is in the octagonal form, and has all the accessories 
of Eastern splendor, according to the architectural au- 
thorities. Its eflfect is really rich and splendid ; and it 
rather dazzled us with its maze of pillars, its upper and 
lower columns, its galleries, complicated capitals, arches 
on arches, and Byzantine intricacies. To the student 
of the very early ecclesiastical art, it must be an object 
of more interest than even of wonder. But what I cared 
most to see were the mosaics in the choir, executed in 
the time of Justinian, and as fresh and beautiful as on 
the day they were made. The mosaics and the exquisite 
arabesques on the roof of the choir, taken together, are 
certainly unequalled by any other early church-deco- 
ration I have seen ; and they are as interesting as they 
are beautiful. Any description of them is impossible ; 
but mention may be made of two characteristic groups, 
remarkable for execution, and having yet a deeper in- 
terest. 

In one compartment of the tribune is the figure of the 
Emperor Justinian, holding a vase with consecrated offer- 
ings, and surrounded by courtiers and soldiers. Oppo- 
site is the figure of the Empress Theodora, holding a 
similar vase, and attended by ladies of Jaer court. There is 
a refinement and an elegance about the empress, a grace 
and sweet dignity, that is fascinating. This is royalty, 
— stately and cold perhaps : even the mouth may be 
a Httle cruel, I begin to perceive, as I think of her ; but 
she wears the purple by divine right. I have not seen 
on any walls any figure walking out of history so cap- 
tivating as this lady, who would seem to have been 
worthy of apotheosis in a Christian edifice. Can there 
be any doubt that this lovely woman was orthodox? 
She, also, has a story, which you doubtless have been 
recalling as you read. Is it worth while to repeat even 
its outlines? This charming regal woman was the 



PICTURE OF A BEAUTIFUL HERETIC, 185 

daughter of the keeper of the bears in the circus at 
Constantinople ; and she early went upon the stage as 
a pantomimist and buffoon. She was beautiful, with 
regular features, a little pale, but with a tinge of natural 
color, vivacious eyes, and an easy motion that displayed 
to advantage the graces of her small but elegant figure. 
I can see all that in the mosaic. But she sold her charms 
to whoever cared to buy them in Constantinople ; she 
led a life of dissipation that cannot be even hinted at in 
these days ; she went off to Egypt as the concubine of 
a general ; was deserted, and destitute even to misery 
in Cairo ; wandered about a vagabond in many Eastern 
cities, and won the reputation everywhere of the most 
beautiful courtesan of her time ; re-appeared in Constan- 
tinople ; and, having, it is said, a vision of her future, 
suddenly took to a pretension of virtue and plain sew- 
ing ; contrived to gain the notice of Justinian, to inflame 
his passions as she did those of all the world besides, 
to captivate him into first an alliance, and at length a 
marriage. The emperor raised her to an equal seat 
with himself on his throne ; and she was worshipped 
as empress in that city where she had been admired 
as harlot. And on the throne she was a wise woman, 
courageous and chaste; and had her palaces on the 
Bosphorus ; and took good care of her beauty, and in- 
dulged in the pleasures of a good table ; had ministers 
who kissed her feet ; a crowd of women and eunuchs in 
her secret chambers, whose passions she indulged ; was 
avaricious and sometimes cruel ; and founded a convent 
for the irreclaimably bad of her own sex, some of whom 
liked it, and some of whom threw themselves into the 
sea in despak ; and when she died was an irreparable 
loss to her emperor. So that it seems to me it is a pity 
that the historian should say that she was devout, but a 
little heretic. 



A HIGH DAY IN ROME. 



PALM SUNDAY IN ST. PETER'S. 

THE splendid and tiresome ceremonies of Holy Week 
set in ; also the rain, which held up for two days. 
Kome without the sun, and with rain and the bone- 
penetrating damp cold of the season, is a wretched 
place. Squalor and ruins and cheap splendor need the 
sun ; the galleries need it ; the black old masters in the 
dark corners of the gaudy churches need it ; I think 
scarcely any thing of a cardinal's big, blazing footman, 
unless the sun shines on him, and radiates from his 
broad back and his splendid calves ; the models, who 
get up in theatrical costumes, and get put into pictures, 
and pass the world over for Roman peasants (and 
beautiful many of them are) can't sit on the Spanish 
Stairs in indolent pose when it rains ; the streets are 
slimy and horrible ; the carriages try to run over you, 
and stand a very good chance of succeeding, where there 
are no sidewalks, and you are limping along on the slip- 
pery, round cobble-stones ; you can't get into the coun- 
try, which is the best part of Rome : but when the sun 
shines all this is changed ; the dear old dirty town exer- 
cises its fascinations on you then, and you speedily forget 
your recent misery. 

Holy Week is a vexation to most people. All the 
world crowds here to see its exhibitions and theatrical 
shows, and works hard to catch a glimpse of them, and 
is tired out, if not disgusted, at the end. The things to 
see and hear are Palm Sunday in St. Peter's ; singing 
of the miserere by the pope's choir on Wednesday, 

189 



190 PALM SUNDA Y IN ST. PE TER 'S. 

Thursday, and Friday in the Sistine Chapel ; washing 
of the pilgrims' feet in a chapel of St. Peter's, and serv- 
ing the apostles at table by the pope on Thursday, with 
a papal benediction from the balcony afterwards ; Easter 
Sunday, with the illumination of St. Peter's in the even- 
ing ; and fireworks (this year in front of St. Peter's in 
Montorio) Monday evening. Raised seats are built up 
about the high altar under the dome in St. Peter's, which 
will accommodate a thousand, and perhaps more, ladies ; 
and for these tickets are issued without numbers, and 
for twice as many as they will seat. Gentlemen who 
are in evening dress are admitted to stand in the re- 
served places inside the lines of soldiers. For th^ 
miserere in the Sistine Chapel tickets are also issued. As 
there is only room for about four hundred ladies, and a 
thousand and more tickets are given out, you may ima- 
gine the scramble. Ladies go for hours before the singing 
begins, and make a grand rush when the doors are open. 
I do not know any sight so unseemly and cruel as a 
crowd of women intent on getting in to such a ceremony : 
they are perfectly rude and unmerciful to each other. 
They push and trample one another under foot ; veils 
and dresses are torn ; ladies faint away in the scrim- 
mage, and only the strongest and most unscrupulous get 
in. I have heard some say, who have been in the pell- 
mell, that, not content with elbowing and pushing and 
pounding, some women even stick pins into those who 
are in the way. I hope this latter is not true ; but it is 
certain that the conduct of most of the women is brutal. 
A weak or modest or timid woman stands no more 
chance than she would in a herd of infuriated Campagna 
cattle. The same scenes are enacted in the efforts to 
see the pope wash feet, and serve at the table. For the 
possession of the seats under the dome on Palm Sunday 
and Easter there is a like crush. The ceremonies do 
not begin until half-past nine ; but ladies go between 
five and six o'clock in the morning, and when the pas- 
sages are open they make a grand rush. The seats, 



PALM SUNDA V IN ST. PE TER 'S. 191 

except those saved for the nobility, are soon all taken ; 
and the ladies who come after seven are lucky if they 
can get within the charmed circle, and find a spot to sit 
down on a camp-stool. They can then see only a part 
of the proceedings, and have a weary, exhausting time 
of it for hours. This year Rome is more crowded 
than ever before. There are American ladies enough 
to fill all the reserved places ; and I fear they are ener- 
getic enough to get their share of them. 

It rained Sunday ; but there was a steady stream of 
people and carriages all the morning pouring over the 
Bridge of St. Angelo, and discharging into the piazza 
of St. Peter's. It was after nine when I arrived on the 
ground. There was a crowd of carriages under the 
colonnades, and a heavy fringe in front of them ; but 
the hundreds of people moving over the piazza, and up 
the steps to the entrances, made only the impression of 
dozens in the vast space. I do not know if there*, are 
people enough in Rome to fill St. Peter's ; certainly there 
was no appearance of a crowd as we entered, although 
they had been pouring in all the morning, and still 
thronged the doors. I heard a traveller say that he fol- 
lowed ten thousand soldiers into the church, and then 
lost them from sight : they disappeared in the side 
chapels. He did not make his affidavit as to the num- 
ber of soldiers. The interior area of the building is not 
much greater than the square of St. Mark in Venice. 
To go into the great edifice is almost like going out doors. 
Lines of soldiers kept a wide passage clear from the front 
door away down to the high altar ; and there was a good 
mass of spectators on the outside. The tribunes for the 
ladies, built up under the dome, were, of course, filled 
with masses of ladies in solemn black ; and there was 
more or less of a press of people surging about in that 
vicinity. Thousands of people were also roaming about 
in the great spaces of the edifice ; but there was no- 
where else any thing like a crowd. It had very much 
the appearance of a large fair-ground, with little crowds 



192 PALM SUNDA Y IN ST. PE TER 'S. 

about favorite booths. Gentlemen in dress-coats were 
admitted to the circle under the dome. The pope's 
choir was stationed in a gallery there opposite the high 
altar. Back of the altar was a wide space for the dig- 
nitaries ; seats were there, also, for ambassadors and 
those born to the purple ; and the pope's seat was on a 
raised dais at the end. Outsiders could see nothing of 
what went on within there ; and the ladies under the 
dome could only partially see, in the seats they had 
fought so gallantly to obtain. 

St. Peter's is a good place for grand processions and 
ceremonies ; but it is a poor one for viewing - them. A 
procession which moves down the nave is hidden by the 
soldiers who stand on either side, or is only visible by 
sections as it passes : there is no good place to get the 
grand effect of the masses of color, and the total of the 
gorgeous pageantry. I should like to see the display 
upon a grand stage, and enjoy it in a cowp d'(Eil. It is 
a fine study of color and effect, and the groupings are 
admirable ; but the whole affair is nearly lost to the mass 
of spectators. It must be a sublime feeling to one in the 
procession to walk about in such monstrous fine clothes ; 
but what would his emotions be if more people could see 
him ! The grand altar stuck up under the dome, not 
only breaks the effect of what would be the fine sweep 
of the nave back to the apse, but it cuts off all view of 
the celebration of the mass behind it, and, in effect, 
reduces what should be the great point of display in the 
church to a mere chapel. And, when you add to that 
the temporary tribunes erected under the dome for seat- 
ing the ladies, the entire nave is shut off from a view 
of the gorgeous ceremony of high mass. The effect 
would be incomparable if one could stand in the door, 
or anywhere in the nave, and, as in other churches, 
look down to the end upon a great platform, with the high 
altar and all the sublime spectacle in full view, with the 
blaze of candles and the clouds of incense rising in the 
distance. 



PALM SUNDA V IN ST. PE TER 'S. 193 

At half-past nine the great doors opened, and the pro- 
cession began, in slow and stately moving fashion, to 
enter. One saw a throng of ecclesiastics in robes and 
ermine; the white plumes of the Guard Noble; the 
pages and chamberlains in scarlet ; other pages, or what 
not, in black short-clothes, short swords, gold chains, 
cloak hanging from the shoulder, and stiff white ruffs ; 
thirty-six Isardinals in violet robes, with high, mitre- 
shaped white silk hats, that looked not unlike the paste- 
board "trainer-caps" that boys wear when they play 
soldier; crucifixes, and a blazoned banner here and 
there ; and, at last, the pope, in his red chair, borne on 
the shoulders of red lackeys, heaving along in a sea- 
sicky motion, clad in scarlet and gold, with a silver 
mitre on his head, feebly making the papal benediction 
with two upraised fingers, and moving his lips in blessing. 
As the pope came in, a supplementary choir of men and 
soprano hybrids, stationed near the door, set up a high, 
welcoming song, or chant, which echoes rather finely 
through the building. All the music of the day is 
vocal. 

The procession having reached its destination, and 
disappeared behind the altar of the dome, the pope dis- 
mounted, and took his seat on his throne. The blessing 
of the palms began, the cardinals first approaching, and 
afterwards the members of the diplomatic corps, the 
archbishops and bishops, the heads of the religious 
orders, and such private persons as have had permission 
to do so. I had previously seen the palms carried in by 
servants in great baskets. It is, perhaps, not necessary 
to say that they are not the poetical green waving palms, 
but stiff sort of wands, woven out of dry, yellow, split 
palm-leaves, sometimes four or five feet in length, braided 
into the semblance of a crown on top, — a kind of rough 
basket-work. The palms having been blessed, a proces- 
sion was again formed down the nave and out the door, 
all in it " carrying palms in their hands," the yellow color 
of which added a new element of picturesqueness to the 
17 



194 PALM SUNDA Y IN ST. PE TER 'S. 

splendid pageant. The pope was carried as before, 
and bore in his hand a short, braided palm, with gold 
woven in, flowers added, and the monogram I. H. S. 
worked in the top. It is the pope's custom to give this 
away when the ceremony is over. Last year he pre- 
sented it to an American lady, whose devotion attracted 
him : this year, I saw it go away in a gilded coach in 
the hands of an ecclesiastic. The procession disappeared 
through the great portal into the vestibule, and the door 
closed. In a moment, somebody knocked three times 
on the door : it opened, and the procession returned, 
and moved again to the rear of the altar, the singers 
marchinor with it and chanting. The cardinals then 
changed their violet for scarlet robes ; and high mass, for 
an hour, was celebrated by a cardinal priest : and I was 
told that it was the pope's voice that we heard, high and 
clear, singing the passion. The choir made the responses, 
and performed at intei'vals. The singing was not with- 
out a certain power ; indeed, it was marvellous how some 
of the voices really filled the vast spaces of the edifice, 
and the choruses rolled in solemn waves of sound through 
the arches. The singing, with the male sopranos, is not 
to my taste ; but it cannot be denied that it had a wild 
and strange effect. 

While this was going on behind the altar, the people 
outside were wandering about, looking at each other, and 
on the watch not to miss any of the shows of the day. 
People were talking, chattering, and greeting each other 
as they might do in the street. Here and there some- 
body was kneeling on the pavement, unheeding the 
passing throng. At several of the chapels, services were 
being conducted ; and there was a large congregation, an 
ordinary church full, about each of them. But the most 
of those present seemed to regard it as a spectacle only ; 
and, as a display of dress, costumes, and nationalities, it 
was almost unsurpassed. There are few more wonder- 
ful sights in this world than an Englishwoman in what 
she considers fiill dress. An English dandy is also a 



PALM SUNDA Y IN ST. PE TER 'S 195 

pleasing object. For my part, as I liaye hinted, I like 
almost as well as any thing the big footmen, — those in 
scarlet breeches and blue, gold-embroidered coats. I 
stood in front of one of the fine creations for some time, 
and contemplated him as one does the Farnese Hercules. 
One likes to see to what a splendor his species can come, 
even if the brains have all run down into the calves of 
the legs. There were also the pages, the officers of the 
pope's household, in costumes of the Middle Ages ; the 
pope's Swiss guard in the showy harlequin uniform de- 
signed by Michael Angelo ; the foot-soldiers in white 
short-clothes, which threatened to burst, and let them fly 
into pieces; there were fine ladies and gentlemen, 
loafers and loungers, from every civilized country, jabber- 
ing in all the languages ; there were beggars in rags, and 
boors in coats so patched, that there was probably none 
of the original material left ; there were groups of peas- 
ants from the Campagna, the men in short jackets and 
sheepskin breeches with the wool side out, the women 
with gay-colored folded cloths on their heads, and coarse, 
woollen gowns ; a squad of wild-looking Spanish gypsies, 
burning-eyed, olive-skinned, hair long, black, crinkled, 
and greasy, as wild in raiment as in face ; priests and 
friars. Zouaves in jaunty light gray and scarlet ; rags and 
velvets, silks and serge cloths, — a cosmopolitan gath- 
ering poured into the world's great place of meeting, — 
a fine religious Vanity Fair on Sunday. 

There came an impressive moment in all this con- 
fusion, a point of august solemnity. Up to that instant, 
what with chanting and singing the many services, and 
the noise of talking and walking, there was a wild Babel. 
But at the stroke of the bell and the elevation of the 
Host, down went the muskets of the guard with one 
clang on the marble ; the soldiers kneeled ; the multitude 
in the nave, in the aisles, at all the chapels, kneeled ; and 
for a minute in that vast edifice there was perfect stillness : 
if the whole great concourse had been swept from the 
earth, the spot where it lately was could not have been 



196 PALM SUNDAY IN ST. PETER'S. 

more silent. And then the military order went down 
the line, the soldiers rose, the crowd rose, and the mass 
and the hum went on. 

It was all over before one ; and the pope was borne 
out again, and the vast crowd began to discharge itself. 
But it was a long time before the carriages were all filled 
and rolled off". I stood for a half-hour watching the 
stream go by, — the pompous soldiers, the peasants and 
citizens, the dazzling equipages, and jaded, exhausted 
women in black, who had sat or stood half a day under 
the dome, and could get no carriage ; and the great 
state coaches of the cardinals, swinging high in the air, 
painted and gilded, with three noble footmen hanging 
on behind each, and a cardinal's broad face in the 
window. 



VESUVIUS. 



CLIMBING A VOLCANO. 

EVERYBODY who comes to Naples, — that is, 
everybody except the lady who fell from her 
horse the other day at Eesina, and injured her shoulder, 
as she was mounting for the ascent, — everybody, I say, 
goes up Vesuvius, and nearly every one writes impres- 
sions and descriptions of the performance. If you be- 
lieve the tales of travellers, it is an undertaking of great 
hazard, an experience of frightful emotions. How 
unsafe it is, especially for ladies, I heard twenty times 
in Naples before I had been there a day. Why, there 
was a lady thrown from her horse and nearly killed, 
only a week ago ; and she still lay ill at the next hotel, a 
witness of the truth of the story. I imagined her plunged 
down a precipice of lava, or pitched over the lip of the 
crater, and only rescued by the devotion of a gallant 
guide, who threatened to let go of her if she didn't pay 
him twenty francs instantly. This story, which will live 
and grow for years in this region, a waxing and never- 
waning peril of the volcano, I found, subsequently, had 
the foundation I have mentioned above. The lady did 
go to Resina in order to make the ascent of Vesuvius, 
mounted a horse there, fell off, being utterly unhorsewo- 
manly, and hurt herself; but her injury had no more 
to do with Vesuvius than it had with the entrance of 
Victor Emanuel into Naples, which took place a couple 
of weeks after. Well, as I was saying, it is the fashion 
to write descriptions of Vesuvius ; and you might as well 
have mine, which I shall give to you in rough outline. 

199 



200 CLIMBING A X^OLCANO. 

There came a day when the Tramontane ceased to 
blow down on us the cold air of the snowy Apennines, 
and the white cap of Vesuvius, which is, by the way, 
■worn generally like the caps of the Neapolitans, drifted 
inland instead of toward the sea. Warmer weather had 
come to make the bright sunshine no longer a mockery. 
For some days I had been getting the gauge of the 
mountain. With its white plume it is a constant quan- 
tity in the landscape : one sees it from every point of 
view ; and we had been scarcely anywhere that volcanic 
remains, or signs of such action, — a thin crust shaking 
under our feet, as at Solfatara, where blasts of sulphur- 
ous steam drove in our faces, — did not remind us that 
the whole ground is uncertain, and undermined by the sub- 
terranean fires that have Vesuvius for a chimney. All 
the coast of the bay, within recent historic periods, in 
different spots at different times, has risen and sunk and 
risen again, in simple obedience to the pulsations of the 
great fiery monster below. It puffs up or sinks, like the 
crust of a baking apple-pie. This region is evidently 
not done ; and I think it not unlikely it may have to be 
turned over again before it is. We had seen where Her- 
culaneum lies under the lava and under the town of Re- 
sina ; we had walked those clean and narrow streets of 
Pompeii, and seen the workmen picking away at the 
embedded gravel, sand, and ashes which still cover 
nearly two-thirds of the nice little, tight little Roman 
city ; we had looked at the black gashes on the moun- 
tain-sides, Avhere the lava streams had gushed and rolled 
and twisted over vineyards and villas and villages ; and 
we decided to take a nearer look at the immediate cause 
of all this abnormal state of things. 

In the morning when I awoke the sun was just rising 
behind Vesuvius ; and there was a mighty display of gold, 
and crimson in that quarter, as if the curtain was about 
to be lifted on a grand performance, ■ — say a ballet at 
San Carlo, which is the only thing the Neapolitans think 
worth looking at. Straight up in the air, out of the 



CLIMBING A VOLCANO. 201 

mountain, rose a white pillar, spreading out at the top 
like a palm-tree, or, to compare it to something I have 
seen, to the Italian pines, that come so picturesquely into 
all these Naples pictures. If you will believe me, that 
pillar of steam was like a column of fire, from the sun 
shining on and through it, and perhaps from the reflec- 
tion of the background of crimson clouds and blue and 
gold sky, spread out there and hung there in royal and 
extravagant profusion, to make a highway and a regal 
gateway, through which I could just then see coming the 
horses and the chariot of a southern perfect day. They 
said that the tree-shaped cloud was the sign of an erup- 
tion ; but the hotel-keepers here are always predicting 
that. The eruption is usually about two or three weeks 
distant ; and the hotel proprietors get this information 
from experienced guides, who observe the action of the 
water in the wells ; so that there can be no mistake about 
it. 

We took carriages at nine o'clock to Resina, a drive 
of four miles, and one of exceeding interest, if you wish 
to see Naples life. The way is round the curving bay 
by the sea; but so continuously built up is it, and so 
enclosed with high walls of villas, through the open 
gates of which the golden oranges gleam, that you seem 
never to leave the city. The streets and quays swarm 
with the most vociferous, dirty, multitudinous life. It is 
a drive through Rag Fair. The tall, whitey-yellow 
houses fronting the water, six, seven, eight stories high, 
are full as bee-hives ; people are at all the open windows ; 
garments hang from the balconies and from poles thrust 
out; up every narrow, gloomy, ascending street are 
crowds of struggling human shapes ; and you see how 
like herrings in a box are packed the over half a million 
people of Naples. In front of the houses are the mar- 
kets in the open air, — fish, vegetables, carts of oranges ; 
in the sun sit women spinning from distaffs or weaving 
fishing-nets ; and rows of children who were never washed 
and never clothed but once, and whose garments have 



202 CLIMBING A VOLCANO. 

nearly wasted away ; beggars, fishermen in red caps, 
sailors, priests, donkeys, fruit-venders, street-musicians, 
carriages, carts, two-wheeled break-down vehicles, — the 
whole tangled in one wild roar and rush and Babel, — a 
shifting, varied panorama of color, rags, — a pandemonium 
such as the world cannot show elsewhere, — thai is what 
one sees on the road to Resina. The drivers all drive 
in the streets here as if they held a commission from the 
Devil, cracking their whips, shouting to their horses, and 
dashing; into the thickest tangle with entire recklessness. 
They have one cry, used alike for getting more speed out 
of their horses or for checking them, or in warning to 
the endangered crowds on foot. It is an exclamatory 
grunt, which may be partially expressed by the letters 
" a-e-ugh." Everybody shouts it, — mule-driver, "coachee," 
or cattle driver; and even I, a passenger, fancied I could 
do it to disagreeable perfection after a time. Out of this 
throng in the streets I like to select the meek, patient, 
diminutive little donkeys, with enormous panniers that 
almost hide them. One would have a woman seated on 
top, with a child in one pannier and cabbages in the 
other ; another, with an immense stock of market-greens 
on his back, or big baskets of oranges, or with a row of 
wine-casks and a man seated behind, adhering, by some 
unknown law of adhesion, to the sloping tail. Then 
there was the cart drawn by one diminutive donkey, or 
by an ox, or by an ox and a donkey, or by a donkey and 
horse abreast, — never by any possibility a matched team. 
And, funniest of all, was the high, two-wheeled caCeche, 
with one seat, and top thrown back, with long thills and 
poor horse. Upon this vehicle were piled, Heaven knows 
how, behind, before, on the thills, and underneath the 
high seat, sometimes ten, and not seldom as many as 
eighteen people, — men, women, and children, — all in 
flaunting rags, with a colored scarf here and there, or a gay 
petticoat, or a scarlet cap, — perhaps a priest, with broad 
black hat, in the centre, — driving along like a comet, the 
poor horse in a gallop, the bells on his ornamented sad- 



CLIMBING A VOLCANO. ,203 

die merrily jingling, and tlie wliole load in a roar of mer- 
riment. 

But we sliall never get to Vesuvius at this rate. I 
will not even stop to examine the macaroni manufacto- 
ries on the road. The long strips of it were hung out on 
poles to dry in the streets, and to get a rich color from 
the dirt and dust, to say nothing of its contact with the 
filthy people who were making it. I am very fond of 
macaroni. At Resina we take horses for the ascent. 
We had sent ahead for a guide and horses for our party 
of ten ; but we found besides, I should think, pretty 
nearly the entire population of the locality awaiting us, 
not to count the importunate beggars, the hags, male and 
female, and the ordinary loafers of the place. We were 
besieged to take this and that horse or mule, to buy 
walking-sticks for the climb, to purchase lava cut into 
charms, and veritable ancient coins, and dug-up cameos, 
— all manufactured for the demand. One wanted to 
hold the horse, or to lead it, to carry a shawl, or to show 
the way. In the midst of infinite clamor and noise, we 
at last got mounted, and, turning into a narrow lane 
between hiofh walls, beo;an the ascent, our cavalcade 
attended by a procession of rags and wretchedness up 
throuo;h the villao;e. Some of them fell off as we rose 
among the vineyards, and they found us proof against 
begging ; but several accompanied us all day, hoping 
that, in some unguarded moment, they could do us some 
slight service, and so establish a claim on us. Among 
these I noticed some stout fellows with short ropes, with 
which they intended to assist us up the steeps. If I looked 
away an instant, some urchin would seize my horse's bri- 
dle ; and when I carelessly let my stick fall on his hand, 
in token for him to let go, he would fall back with an 
injured look, and grasp the tail, from which I could only 
loosen him by swinging my staff and preparing to break 
his head. 

The ascent is easy at first between walls and the vine- 
yards which produce the celebrated Lachryma Christi. 



204 CLIMBING A VOLCANO, 

After a lialf-hour we readied and began to cross the 
lava of 1858, and the wild. desolation and gloom of the 
mountain began to strike us. One is here conscious of 
the Titanic forces at work. Sometimes it is as if a giant 
had ploughed the ground, and left the furrows without har- 
rowins: them to harden into black and brown stone. We 
could see again how the broad stream, flowing down, 
squeezed and squashed like mud, had taken all fantastic 
shapes, — now like gnarled tree-roots ; now like serpents 
in a coil ; here the human form, or a part of it, — a torso or 
a limb, — in agony ; now in other nameless convolutions 
and contortions, as if heaved up and twisted in fiery pain 
and suffering, — for there was almost a human feeling in 
it ; and again not unlike stone billows. We could see 
how the cooling crust had been lifted and split and 
turned over by the hot stream underneath, which, con- 
tinually oozing from the rent of the eruption, bore it 
down and pressed it upward. Even so low as the point 
where we crossed the lava of 1858 were fissures whence 
came hot air. 

An hour brought us to the resting-place called the' 
Hermitage, an osteria and observatory established by 
the Government. Standing upon the end of a spur, it 
seems to be safe from the lava, whose course has always 
been on either side ; but it must be an uncomfortable 
place in a shower of stones and ashes. We rode half 
an hour longer on horseback, on a nearly level path, to 
the foot of the steep ascent, the base of the great crater. 
This ride gave us completely the wide and ghastly deso- 
lation of the mountain, the ruin that the lava has 
wrought upon slopes that were once green with vine 
and olive, and busy with the hum of hfe. This black, 
contorted desert waste is more sterile and hopeless than 
any mountain of stone, because the idea of relentless 
destruction is involved here. This great, hummocked, 
sloping plain, ridged and seamed, was all about us, with- 
out cheer or relaxation of grim solitude. Before us rose, 
as black and bare, what the guides call the mountain, 



CLIMBING A VOLCANO. 205 

and whicli used to be the crater. Up one side is worked 
in the lava a zigzag path, steep, but not very fatiguing, 
if you take it slowly. Two-thirds of the way up, I saw 
specks of people climbing. Beyond it rose the cone of 
ashes, out of which the great cloud of sulphurous smoke 
rises and rolls night and day now. On the very edge of 
that, on the lip of it, where the smoke rose, I also saw 
human shapes ; and it seemed as if they stood on the 
brink of Tartarus and in momently, imminent peril. 

We left our horses in a wild spot, where scorched 
bowlders had fallen upon the lava bed ; and guides and 
boys gathered about us like cormorants : but, declining 
their offers to pull us up, we began the ascent, which 
took about three-quarters of an hour. We were then on 
the summit, which is, after all, not a summit at all, but an 
uneven waste, sloping away from the Cone in the centre. 
This sloping lava waste was full of little cracks, — not fis- 
sures with hot lava in them, or any thing of the sort, — out 
of which white steam issued, not unlike the smoke from 
a great patch of burned timber ; and the wind blew it 
along the ground -towards us. It was cool, for the sun 
was hidden by light clouds, but not cold. The ground 
under foot was slightly warm. I had expected to feel 
some dread, or shrinking, or at least some sense of inse- 
curity, but I did not the slightest, then or afterwards ; 
and I think mine is the usual experience. I had no 
more sense of danger on the edge of the crater than I 
had in the streets of Naples. 

We next addressed ourselves to the Cone, which is a 
loose hill of ashes and sand, — a natural slope, I should 
say, of about one and a half to one, offering no foothold. 
The climb is very fatiguing, because you sink in to the 
ankles, and slide back at every step ; but it is short, — we 
were up in six to eight minutes, — though the ladies, who 
had been helped a little by the guides, were nearly 
exhausted, and sank down on the very edge of the cra- 
ter, with their backs to the smoke. What did we see ? 
What would you see if you looked into a steam boiler ? 
18 



2o6 CLIMBING A VOLCANO. 

We stood on tlie ashy- edge of the crater, the sharp edge 
sloping one way down the mountain, and the other into 
the bowels, whence the thick, stijfling smoke rose. We 
rolled stones down, and heard them rumbling for half a 
minute. The diameter of the crater on the brink of 
which we stood was said to be an eighth of a mile ; but 
the whole was completely filled with vapor. The edge 
where we stood was quite warm. We ate some rolls we 
had brought in our pockets, and some of the party tried 
a bottle of the wine that one of the cormorants had 
brought up, but found it any thing but the Lachryma 
Christi it was named. We looked with longing eyes 
down into the vapor-boiling caldron ; we looked at the 
wide and lovely view of land and sea ; we tried to realize 
our awful situation, munched our dry bread, and laughed 
at the monstrous demands of the vagabonds about us for 
money, and then turned and went down quicker than we 
came up. 

We had chosen to ascend to the old crater rather than 
to the new one of the recent eruption on the side of the 
mountain, where there is nothing to be seen. When we 
reached the bottom of the Cone, our guide led us to the 
north side, and into a region that did begin to look like 
business. The wind drove all the smoke round there, 
and we were half stifled with sulphur fumes to begin 
with. Then the Vhole ground was discolored red and 
yellow, and with many more gay and sulphur-suggesting 
colors. And it actually had deep fissures in it, over 
which we stepped and among which we went, out of 
which came blasts of hot, horrid vapor, with a roaring as 
if we were in the midst of furnaces. And if we came 
near the cracks the heat was powerful in our faces, and 
if we thrust our sticks down them they were instantly 
burned ; and the guides cooked eggs ; and the crust was 
thin, and very hot to our boots ; and half the time we 
couldn't see any thing ; and we would rush away where 
the vapor was not so thick, and, with handkerchiefs to our 
mouths, rush in again to get the full effect. After we 



CLIMBING A VOLCANO. 207 

came out again into better air, it was as if we had been 
through the burning, fiery furnace, and had the smell 
of it on our garments. And, indeed, the sulphur had 
changed to red certain of our clothes, and noticeably my 
pantaloons and the black velvet cap of one of the ladies ; 
and it was some days before they recovered their color. 
But, as I say, there was no sense of danger in the adven- 
ture. 

We descended by a different route, on the south side 
of the mountain, to our horses, and made a lark of it. 
We went down an ash slope, very steep, where we sank 
in a foot or little less at every step, and there was noth- 
ing to do for it, but to run and jump. We took steps as 
lonoj as if we had worn seven-leao;ue boots. When the 
whole party got in motion, the entire slope seemed to 
slide a little with us, and there appeared some danger of 
an avalanche. But we didn't stop for it. It was exactly 
like plunging down a steep hillside that is covered 
thickly with light, soft snow. There was a gray-haired 
gentleman with us, with a good deal of the boy in him, 
who thought it great fun. 

I have said little about the view ; but I might have 
written about nothing else, both in the ascent and de- 
scent. Naples, and all the villages which rim the bay 
with white, the gracefully-curving arms that go out to 
sea, and do not quite clasp rocky Capri, which lies at 
the entrance, made the outline of a picture of sur- 
passing loveliness. But, as we came down, there was 
a sight that I am sure was unique. As one in a balloon 
sees the earth concave beneath, so, now, from where we 
stood, it seemed to rise, not fall, to the sea, and all the 
white villages were raised to the clouds ; and, by the 
peculiar light, the sea looked exactly like sky, and the 
little boats on it seemed to float, like balloons in the air. 
The illusion was perfect. As the day waned, a heavy 
cloud hid the sun, and so let down the light that the 
waters were a dark purple. Then the sun went behind 
Posilipo in a perfect blaze of scarlet, and all the sea was 



2o8 CLIMBING A VOLCANO. 



violet. Only it still was not the sea at all ; but the 
little chopping waves looked like •flecked clouds ; and it 
was exactly as if one of the violet, cloud-beautified skies 
that we see at home over some sunsets had fallen to the 
ground. And the slant white sails and the black specks 
of boats on it hung in the sky, and were as unsubstantial 
as the whole pageant. Capri alone was dark and solid. 
And as we descended and a high wall hid it, a little 
handsome rascal, who had attended me for an hour, now 
at the head and now at the tail of my pony, recalled me 
to the realities by the request that I should give him a 
franc. For what ? For carrying signor's coat up the 
mountain. I rewarded the little liar with a German 
copper. I had carried my own overcoat all day. 



1 



SORRENTO DAYS. 



OUTLINES. 

THE day came when we tired of the brilliancy and din 
of Naples, most noisy of cities. Neapolis, or Par- 
thenope, as is well known, was founded by Parthenope, a 
siren who was cast ashore there. Her descendants still 
live here ; and we have become a little weary of their 
inherited musical ability : they have learned to play upon 
many new instruments, with which they keep us awake 
late at night, and arouse us early in the morning. One 
of them is always there under the window, where the 
moonlight will strike him, or the early dawn will light 
up his love-worn visage, strumming the guitar with his 
horny thumb, and wailing through his nose as if his 
throat was full of sea-weed. He is as inexhaustible as 
Vesuvius. We shall have to flee, or stop our ears with 
wax, like the sailors of Ulysses. 

The day came when we had checked off the Posilipo, 
and the Grotto, Pozzuoli, Baiae, Cape Misenum, the 
Museum, Vesuvius, Pompeii, Herculaneum, the moderns 
buried at the Campo Santo ; and we said. Let us go and 
lie in the sun at Sorrento. But first let us settle our 
geography. 

The Bay of Naples, painted and sung forever, but 
never adequately, must consent to be here described as 
essentially a parallelogram, with an opening towards the 
south-west. The north-east side of this, with Naples in 
the right-hand corner, looking seaward, and Castellamare 
in the left-hand corner, at a distance of some fourteen 
miles, is a vast rich plain, fringed on the shore with 

211 



212 OUTLINES. 

towns, and covered witli white houses and gardens. Out 
of this rises the isolated bulk of Vesuvius. This grow- 
ing mountain is manufactured exactly, like an ant-hill. 

The north-west side of the bay, keeping a general 
westerly direction, is very uneven, with headlands, deep 
bays, and outlying islands. First comes the promontory 
of Posilipo, pierced by two tunnels, partly natural and 
partly Greek and Roman work, above the entrance of 
one of which is the tomb of Virgil, let us believe ; then 
a beautiful bay, the shore of which is incrusted with 
classic ruins. On this bay stands Pozzuoli, the ancient 
Puteoli where St. Paul landed one May day, and doubt- 
less walked up this paved road, which leads direct to 
Rome. At the entrance, near the head of Posilipo, is 
the volcanic island of " shining Nisida," to which Brutus 
retired after the assassination of Caesar, and where he 
bade Portia good-by before he departed for Greece and 
Philippi : the favorite villa of Cicero, where he wrote 
many of his letters to Atticus, looked on it. Baite, 
epitome of the luxury and profligacy, of the splendor and 
crime, of the most sensual years of the Roman empire, 
spread there its temples, palaces, and pleasure-gardens, 
which crowded the low slopes, and extended over the 
water ; and yonder is Cape Misenum, which sheltered 
the great fleets of Rome. 

This region, which is still shaky from fires bubbling 
under the thin crust, through which here and there the 
sulphurous vapor breaks out, is one of the most sacred 
in the ancient world. Here are the Lucrine Lake, the 
Elysian Fields, the cave of the Cumean Sibyl, and the 
Lake Avernus. This entrance to the infernal regions 
was frozen over the day I saw it ; so that the profane 
prophecy of skating on the bottomless pit might have 
been realized. The Islands of Procida and Ischia con- 
tinue and complete this side of the bay, which is about 
twenty miles long as the boat sails. 

At Castellamare the shore makes a sharp bend, and 
runs south-west alonoj the side of the Sorrentine Prom- 



OUTLINES. 213 

ontory. This promontory is a high, rocky, diversified 
ridge, which extends out between the Bays of Naples and 
Salerno, with its short and precipitous slope towards the 
latter. Below Castellamare, the mountain range of the 
Great St. Angelo (an offshoot of the Apennines) runs 
across the peninsula, and cuts off that portion of it which 
we have to consider. The most conspicuous of the 
three parts of this short range is over four thousand 
seven hundred feet above the Bay of Naples, and the 
highest land on it. From Great St. Angelo to the point, 
the Punta di Campanella, it is, perhaps, twelve miles by 
balloon, but twenty by any other conveyance. Three 
miles off this point lies Capri. 

This promontory has a backbone of rocky ledges and 
hills ; but it has, at intervals, transverse ledges and 
ridges, and deep valleys and chains cutting in from either 
side ; so that it is not very passable in any direction. 
These little valleys and bays are warm nooks for the olive 
and the orange ; and all the precipices and sunny slopes 
are terraced nearly to the top. This promontory of 
rocks is far from being barren. 

From Castellamare, driving along a winding, rock-cut 
road by the bay, — one of the most charming in South- 
ern Italy, — a distance of seven miles, we reach the 
Punta di Scutolo. This point, and the opposite head- 
land, the Capo di Sorrento, enclose the Piano di Sorrento, 
an irregular plain, three miles long, encircled by lime- 
stone hills, which protect it from the east and south 
winds. In this amphitheatre it lies, a mass of green 
foliage and white villages, fronting Naples and Vesuvius. 

If Nature first scooped out this nook level with the sea, 
and then filled it up to a depth of two hundred to three 
hundred feet with volcanic tufa, forming a precipice of 
tbtP-t height along the shore, I can understand how the 
present state of things came about. 

This plain is not all level, however. Decided spurs 
push down into it from the hills ; and great chasms, deep, 
ragged, impassable, split in the tufa, extend up into it 



214 OUTLINES. 

from the sea. At intervals, at the openings of these 
ravines, are little marinas, where the fishermen have their 
huts, and where their boats land. Little villages, sepa- 
rate from the world, abound on these marinas. The 
warm volcanic soil of the sheltered plain makes it a para- 
dise of fruits and flowers. 

Sorrento, ancient and romantic city, lies at the south- 
west end of this plain, built along the sheer sea preci- 
pice, and running back to the hills, — a city of such 
narrow streets, high walls, and luxuriant groves, that it 
can only be seen from the heights adjacent. The ancient 
boundary of the city proper was the famous ravine on 
the east side, a similar ravine on the south, which met it 
at right angles, and was supplemented by a high Roman 
wall, and the same wall continued on the west to the 
sea. The growing town has pushed away the wall on 
the west side ; but that on the south yet stands as good 
as when the Romans made it. There is a little attempt 
at a mall, with double rows of trees, under that wall, 
where lovers walk, and ragged, handsome urchins play 
the exciting game of fives, or sit in the dirt, gambling 
with cards for the Sorrento currency. I do not know 
what sin it may be to gamble for a bit of printed paper 
which has the value of one sou. 

The great ravine, three-quarters of a mile long, the 
ancient boundary which now cuts the town in two, is 
bridged where the main street, the Corso, crosses, the 
bridge resting on old Roman substructions, as every thing 
else about here does. This ravine, always invested with 
mystery, is the theme of no end of poetry and legend. 
Demons inhabit it. Here and there, in its perpendicu- 
lar sides, steps have been cut for descent. Vines and 
lichens grow on the walls : in one place, at the bottom, 
an orange-grove has taken root. There is even a mill 
down there, where there is breadth enough for a build- 
ing ; and, altogether, the ravine is not so delivered over 
to the power of darkness as it used to be. It is still 
damp and slimy, it is true ; but, from above, it is always 



OUTLINES. 21$ 

beautiful, with its luxuriant growth of vines, and at 
twilight mysterious. I like as well, however, to look into 
its entrance from the little marina, where the old fish- 
wives are weaving nets. 

These little settlements under the cliflf, called marinas, 
are worlds in themselves, picturesque at a distance, but 
squalid seen close at hand. They are not very different 
from the little fishing-stations on the Isle of Wight ; 
but they are more sheltered, and their inhabitants sing 
at their work, wear bright colors, and bask in the sun a 
good deal, feeling no sense of responsibility for the 
world they did not create. To weave nets, to fish in the 
bay, to sell their fish at the wharves, to eat unexciting 
vegetables and fish, to drink moderately, to go to the 
chapel of St. Antonino on Sunday, not to work on fast 
and feast days, nor more than compelled to any day, — 
this is life at the marinas. Their world is what they 
can see, and Naples is distant and almost foreign. Gen- 
eration after generation is content with the same simple 
life. They have no more idea of the bad way the world 
is in than bees in their cells. 



THE VILLA NARDL 

THE Villa Nardi hangs over the sea. It is built on 
a rock, and I know not what Roman and Greek 
foundations, and the remains of yet earlier peoples, 
traders, and traffickers, whose galleys used to rock there 
at the base of the cliff, where the gentle waves beat even 
in this winter-time with a summer swing and sound of 
peace. 

It was at the close of a day in January that I first 
knew the Villa Nardi, — a warm, lovely day, at the hour 
when the sun was just going behind the Capo di Sor- 
rento, in order to disrobe a little, I fancy, before plun- 
ging into the Mediterranean off the end of Capri, as is 
his wont about this time of year. When we turned out 
of the little piazza, our driver was obliged to take off 
one of our team of three horses driven abreast, so that 
we could pass through the narrow and crooked streets, 
or rather lanes of blank walls. With cracking whip, 
rattling wheels, and shouting to clear the way, we drove 
into the Strada di San Francisca, and to an arched gate- 
way. This led down a straight path, between olives and 
orange and lemon trees, gleaming with shining leaves 
and fruit of gold, with hedges of rose-trees in full bloom, 
to another leafy arch; through which I saw tropical 
trees, and a terrace with a low wall and battered busts 
guarding it, and, beyond, the blue sea, a white sail or 
two slanting across the opening, and the whiteness of 
Naples some twenty miles away on the shore. 

The noble family of the Villa did not descend into 
216 



THE VILLA NARDL 217 

the garden to welcome us, as we should have liked ; in 
fact, they have been absent now for a long time, so long 
that even their ghosts, if they ever pace the terrace-walk 
towards the convent, would appear strange to one who 
should meet them ; and yet our hostess, the Tramontano, 
did what the ancient occupants scarcely could have done, 
gave us the choice of rooms in the entire house. The 
stranger who finds himself in this secluded paradise, at 
this season, is always at a loss whether to take a room 
on the sea, with all its changeable loveliness, but no sun, 
or one overlooking the garden, where the sun all day 
pours itself into the orange boughs, and where the birds 
are just beginning to get up a spring twitteration. My 
friend, whose capacity for taking in the luxurious repose 
of this region is something extraordinary, has tried, I 
believe, nearly every room in the house, and has at length 
gone up to a solitary room on the top, where, like a bird 
on a tree, he looks all ways, and, so to say, swings in the 
entrancing air. But, wherever you are, you will grow 
into content with your situation. 

At the Villa Nardi, we have no sound of wheels, no 
noise of work or traffic, no suggestion of conflict. I am 
under the impression that every thing that was to have 
been done has been done. I am, it is true, a little afraid 
that the Saracens will come here again, and carry off 
more of the nut-brown girls, who lean over the walls, and 
look down on us from under the boughs. I am not quite 
sure that a French Admiral of the Republic will not 
some morning anchor his three-decker in front, and open 
fire on us ; but nothing else can happen. Naples is a 
thousand miles away. The boom of the saluting guns 
of Castel Nuovo is to us scarcely an echo of modern life. 
Rome does not exist. And, as for London and New 
York, they send their people and their newspapers here, 
but no pulse of unrest from them disturbs our tranquil- 
lity. Hemmed in on the land side by hi^h walls, groves, 
and gardens, perched upon a rock two hundred feet above 
the water, how much more secure from invasion is this 



2i8 THE VILLA NARDL 

than any fabled island of the southern sea, or any remote 
stream where the boats of the lotus-eaters float 1 

There is a little terrace and flower-plat, where we 
sometimes sit, and over the wall of which we like to lean, 
and look down the cliff to the sea. This terrace is the 
common ground of many exotics as well as native trees 
and shrubs. Here are the magnolia, the laurel, the Jap- 
anese medlar, the oleander, the pepper, the bay, the 
date-palm, a tree called the plumbago, another from the 
Cape of Good Hope, the pomegranate, the elder in full 
leaf, the olive, salvia, heliotrope ; close by is a banana- 
tree. 

I find a good deal of companionship in the rows of 
plaster busts that stand on the wall, in all attitudes of 
listlessness, and all stages of decay. I thought at first 
they were Penates of the premises ; but better acquaint- 
ance has convinced me that they never were gods, but 
the clayey representations of great men and noble dames. 
The stains of time are on them ; some have lost a nose 
or an ear ; and one has parted with a still more important 
member, his head, — an accident that might profitably 
have befallen his neighbor, whose curly locks and vil- 
lanously low forehead proclaim him a Roman emperor. 
Cut in the face of the rock is a walled and winding way 
down to the water. I see below the archway where it 
issues from the underground recesses of our establish- 
ment ; and there stands a bust, in serious expectation that 
some one will walk out and saunter down among the 
rocks ; but no one ever does. Just at the right is a little 
beach, with a few old houses, and a mimic stir of life, a 
little curve in the cliff, the mouth of the gorge, where 
the waves come in with a lazy swash. Some fishing- 
boats ride there ; and the shallow water, as I look down 
this sunny morning, is thickly strewn with floating peels 
of oranges and lemons, as if some one was brewing a 
gigantic bowl of punch. And there is an uncommon stir 
of life ; for a schooner is shipping a cargo of oranges, and 
the entire population is in a clamor. Donkeys are com- 



THE VILLA NARDL 219 

ing down the winding way, with a heavy basket on either 
flank ; stout girls are stepping lightly down with loads 
on their heads ; the drivers shoiit, the donkeys bray, the 
people jabber and order each other about; and the 
oranges, in a continual stream, are poured into the long, 
narrow vessel, rolling in with a thud, until there is a yel- 
low mass of them.*. Shouting, scolding, singing, and bray- 
ing, all come up to me a little mellowed. The disorder 
is not so great as on the opera stage of San Carlo in 
Naples ; and the effect is much more pleasing. 

This settlement, the marina, under the cliff, used to 
extend along the shore ; and a good road ran down 
there close by the water. The rock has split off, and 
covered it ; and perhaps the shore has sunk. They tell 
me that those who dig down in the edge of the shallow 
water find sunken walls, and the remains of old founda- 
tions of Koman workmanship. People who wander there 
pick up bits of marble, serpentine, and malachite, — 
remains of the palaces that long ago fell into the sea, and 
have not left even the names of their owners and build- 
ers, — the ancient loafers who idled away their days as 
everybody must in this seductive spot. Not far from 
here, they point out the veritable caves of the Sirens, 
who have now shut up house, and gone away, like the 
rest of the nobility. If I had been a mariner in their day, 
I should have made no effort to sail by and away from 
their soothing shore. 

I went, one day, through a long, sloping arch, near 
the sailors' Chapel of St. Antonino, past a pretty shrine 
of the Virgin, down the zigzag path to this little 
marina; but it is better to be content with looking at 
it from above, and imagining how delightful it would be 
to push off in one of the little tubs of boats. Sometimes, 
at night, I hear the fishermen coming home, singing in 
their lusty fashion ; and I think it is a good haven to 
arrive at. I never go down to search for stones on the 
beach : I like to believe that there are great treasures 
there, which I might find ; and I know that the green 



220 THE VILLA NARDL 

and brown and spotty appearance of the water is caused 
by the showing through of the pavements of courts, and 
•marble floors of palaces, which might vanish if I went 
nearer, such a place of illusion is this. 

The Villa Nardi stands in pleasant relations to Vesu- 
vius, which is just across the bay, and is not so useless 
as it has been represented ; it is our weather-sign and 
prophet. When the white plume on his top floats inland, 
that is one sort of weather ; when it streams out to sea, 
that is another. But I can never tell which is which : 
nor in my experience does it much matter ; for it seems 
impossible for Sorrento to do any thing but woo us with 
gentle weather. But the use of Vesuvius, after all, is to 
furnish us a background for the violet lio;;ht at sundown, 
when the villao;es at its foot gleam like a silver fring-e. 
I have become convinced of one thing : it is always best 
when you build a house to have it front toward a vol- 
cano, if you can. There is just that lazy activity about 
a volcano, ordinarily, that satisfies your demand for 
something that is not exactly dead, and yet does not 
disturb you. 

Sometimes when I wake in the night, — though I 
don't know why one ever wakes in the night, or the 
daytime either here, — I hear the bell of the convent, 
which is in our demesne, — a convent which is sup- 
pressed, and where I hear, when I pass in the morning, 
the hummino; of a school. At first, I tried to count the 
hour ; but, when the bell went on to strike seventeen, 
and even twenty-one o'clock, the absurdity of the thing 
came over me, and I wondered whether it was some 
frequent call to prayer for a feeble band of sisters re- 
maining, some reminder of midnight penance and vigil, 
or whether it was not something more ghostly than that, 
and was not responded to by shades of nuns, who were 
wont to look out from their narrow latticed windows 
upon these same gardens, as long ago as when the beau- 
tiful Queen Joanna used to come down here to repent 
— if she ever did repent — of her wanton ways in Naples. 



THE VILLA NARDL 221 

On one side of the garden is a suppressed monastery. 
The narrow front towards the sea has a secluded little 
balcony, where I like to fancy the poor, orphaned souls 
used to steal out at night for a breath of fresh air, and 
perhaps to see, as I did one dark evening, Naples with 
its lights like a conflagration on the horizon. Upon the 
tiles of the parapet are cheerful devices, — the crossbones 
tied with a cord, and the like. How many heavy- 
hearted recluses have stood in that secluded nook, and 
been tempted by the sweet, lulling sound of the waves 
below ; how many have paced along this narrow terrace, 
and felt like prisoners who wore paths in the stone floor 
where they tread; and how many stupid louts have 
walked there, insensible to all the charm of it I 

If I pass into the Tramontano garden, it is not to 
escape the presence of history, or to get into the modern 
world, where travellers are arriving, and where there is 
the bustle and the proverbial discontent of those who 
travel to enjoy themselves. In the pretty garden, which 
is a constant surprise of odd nooks and sunny hiding- 
places, with ruins, and most luxuriant ivy, is a little 
cottage where, I am told in confidence, the young king 
of Bavaria slept three nights not very long ago. I hope 
he slept well. But more important than the sleep, or 
even death, of a king, is the birth of a poet, I take it ; 
and within this enclosure, on the eleventh day of March, 
1541, Torquato Tasso, most melancholy of men, fi^rst saw 
the light ; and here was born his noble sister Cornelia, 
the descendants of whose union with the cavalier Spa- 
siano still live here, and in a manner keep the memory 
of the poet green with the present generation. I am 
indebted to a gentleman who is of this lineage for many 
favors, and for precise information as to the position in 
the house that stood here of the very room in which 
Tasso was born. It is also minutely given in a memoir 
of Tasso and his family, by Bartolommeo Capasso, whose 
careful researches have disproved the slipshod statements 
of the guide-books, that the poet was born in a house 



222 THE VILLA NARDL 

which is still standing, farther to the west, and that 
the room has fallen into the sea. The descendant of 
the sister pointed out to me the spot on the terrace of the 
Tramontano where the room itself was, when the house 
still stood ; and, of course, seeing is believing. The sun 
shone full upon it, as we stood there ; and the air was 
full of the scent of tropical fruit and just-coming blos- 
soms. One could not desire a more tranquil scene of 
advent into life; and the wandering, broken-hearted 
author of *' Jerusalem Delivered " never found at court 
or palace any retreat so soothing as that offered him 
here by his steadfast sister. 

If I were an antiquarian, I think I should have had 
Tasso born at the Villa Nardi, where I like best to stay, 
and where I find traces of many pilgrims from other 
countries. Here, in a little corner-room on the terrace, 
Mrs. Stowe dreamed and wrote; and I expect, every 
morning, as I take my morning sun here by the gate, 
Agnes of Sorrento will come down the sweet-scented 
path with a basket of oranges on her head. 



SEA AND SHORE. 

IT is not always easy, wlien one stands upon the high- 
lands which encircle the Piano di Sorrento, in some 
conditions of the atmosphere, to tell where the sea ends, 
and the sky begins. It seems practicable, at such times, 
for one to take ship, and sail up into heaven. I have 
often, indeed, seen white sails climbing up there, and 
fishing-boats, at secure anchor I suppose, riding appar- 
ently like balloons in the hazy air. Sea and air and land 
here are all kin, I suspect, and have certain immaterial 
qualities in common. The contours of the shores and 
the outlines of the hills are as graceful as the mobile 
waves ; and if there is anywhere ruggedness and sharp- 
ness, the atmosphere throws a friendly veil over it, and 
tones all that is inharmonious into the repose of beauty. 

The atmosphere is really something more than a 
medium : it is a drapery, woven, one could affirm, with 
colors, or dipped in Oriental dyes. One might account 
thus for the prismatic colors I have often seen on the 
horizon at noon, when the sun was pouring down floods 
of clear, golden light. The simple light here, if one 
could ever represent it by pen, pencil, or brush, would 
draw the world hither to bathe in it. It is not thin 
sunshine, but a royal profusion, a golden substance, a 
transforming quality, a vesture of splendor for all these 
Mediterranean shores. 

The most comprehensive idea of Sorrento and the great 
plain on which it stands, embedded almost out of sight 
in foliage, we obtained one day from our boat, as we put 

223 



224 SEA AND SHORE. 

out round the Capo di Sorrento, and stood away for 
Capri. There was not wind enough for sails ; but there 
were chopping waves, and swell enough to toss us about, 
and to produce bright flashes of light far out at sea. The 
red-shirted rowers silently bent to their long sweeps; 
and I lay in the tossing bow, and studied the high, reced- 
ing shore. The picture is simple, — a precipice of rock 
or earth, faced with masonry in spots, almost of uniform 
height from point to point of the little bay, except where 
a deep gorge has split the rock, and comes to the sea, 
forming a cove, where a cluster of rude buildings is likely 
to gather. Along the precipice, which now juts and now 
recedes a little, are villas, hotels, old convents, gardens, 
and groves. I can see steps and galleries cut in the face 
of the cliff, and caves and caverns, natural and artificial : 
for one can cut this tufa with a knife ; and it would 
hardly seem preposterous to attempt to dig out a cool, 
roomy mansion in this rocky front with a spade. 

As we pull away, I begin to see the depth of the plain 
of Sorrento, with its villages, walled roads, its groves of 
oranges, olives, lemons, its figs, pomegranates, almonds, 
mulberries, and acacias ; and soon the terraces above, 
where the vineyards are planted, and the olives also. 
These terraces must be a brave sight in spring, when the 
masses of olives are white as snow with blossoms, which 
fill all the plain with their sweet perfume. Above the 
terraces, the eye reaches the fine outline of the hill ; and, 
to the east, the bare precipice of rock, softened by the 
purple light; and turning still to the left, as the boat 
lazily swings, I have Vesuvius, the graceful dip into the 
plain, and the rise to the heights of Naples, Nisida, the 
shining houses of Pozzuoli, Cape Misenum, Procida, and 
rough Ischia. Rounding the headland, Capri is before 
us, so sharp and clear that we seem close to it ; but it is 
a weary pull before we get under its rocky side. 

Returning from Capri late in the afternoon, we had 
one of those effects which are the despair of artists. I 
had been told that twilights are short here, and that. 



SEA AND SHORE. 225 

when the sun disappeared, color vanished from the sky. 
There was a wonderful light on all the inner bay, as 
we put oflf from shore. Ischia was one mass of violet 
color. As we got from under the island, there was the 
sun, a red ball of fire, just dipping into the sea. At once 
the whole horizon line of water became a bright crimson, 
which deepened as the evening advanced, glowing with 
more intense fire, and holding a broad band of what 
seemed solid color, for more than three-quarters of an 
hour. The colors, meantime, on the level water, never 
were on painter's palette, and never were counterfeited 
by the changeable silks of Eastern looms ; and this gor- 
geous spectacle continued till the stars came out, crowd- 
ing the sky with silver points. 

Our boatmen, who had been re-enforced at Capri, and 
were inspired either by the wine of the island or the 
beauty of the night, pulled with new vigor, and broke 
out again and again into the wild songs of this coast. A 
favorite was the Garibaldi song, which invariably ended 
in a cheer and a tiger, and threw the singers into such a 
spurt of excitement that the oars forgot to keep time, and 
there was more splash than speed. The singers all sang 
one part in minor : there was no harmony, the voices 
were not. rich, and the melody was not remarkable; but 
there was, after all, a wild pathos in it. Music is very 
much here what it is in Naples. I have to keep saying 
to myself that Italy is the land of song ; else I should 
think that the people mistake noise for music. 

The boatmen are an honest set of fellows, as Italians 
go; and, let us hope, not unworthy followers of their 
patron, St. Antonino, whose chapel is on the edge of the 
gor^e near the Villa Nardi. A silver image of the saint, 
half life-size, stands upon the rich marble altar. This 
valuable statue has been, if tradition is correct, five 
times captured and carried away by marauders, who 
have at different times sacked Sorrento of its marbles, 
bronzes, and precious things, and each time, by some 
mysterious providence, has found its way back again, — 



226 SEA AND SHORE. 

an instance of constancy in a solid silver image which is 
worthy of commendation. The little chapel is hung all 
about with votive ojfferings in wax of arms, legs, heads, 
hands, effigies, and with coarse lithographs, in frames, of 
storms at sea and perils of ships, hung up by sailors who, 
having escaped the dangers of the deep, offer these tri- 
butes to their dear saint. The skirts of the image are 
worn quite smooth with kissing. Underneath it, at the 
back of the altar, an oil light is always burning ; and 
below repose the bones of the holy man. 

The whole shore is fascinating to one in an idle mood, 
and is good mousing ground for the antiquarian. For 
myself, I am content with one generalization, which I 
find saves a world of bother and perplexity : it is quite 
safe to style every excavation, cavern, circular wall, or 
arch by the sea, a Roman bath. It is the final resort of 
the antiquarians. This theory has kept me from enter- 
ing the discussion, whether the substructions in the cliff 
under the Poggio Syracuse, a royal villa, are temples of 
the Sirens, or caves of Ulysses. I only know that I 
descend to the sea there by broad interior flights of steps', 
which lead through galleries and corridors, and high, 
vaulted passages, whence extend apartments and caves 
far reaching into the solid rock. At intervals are land- 
ings, where arched windows are cut out to the sea, with 
stone seats and protecting walls. At the base of the 
cliff, I find a hewn passage, as if there had once been 
here a way of embarkation ; and enormous fragments of 
rocks, with steps cut in them, which have fallen from 
above. 

Were these any thing more than royal pleasure gal- 
leries, where one could sit in coolness in the heat of sum- 
mer, and look on the bay and its shipping, in the days 
when the great Roman fleet used to lie opposite, above 
the point of Misenum ? How many brave and gay ret- 
inues have swept down these broad interior stairways, 
let us say in the picturesque Middle Ages, to embark on 
voyages of pleasure or warlike forays ! The steps are 



SEA AND SHORE. 227 

well worn, and must have been trodden for ages, by 
nobles and robbers, peasants and sailors, priests of more 
than one religion, and traders of many seas, who have 
gone, and left no record. The sun was slanting his last 
rays into the corridors as I musingly looked down from 
one of the arched openings, quite spell-bound by the 
strangeness and dead silence of the place, broken only 
by the plash of waves on the sandy beach below. I had 
found my way down through a wooden door half ajar ; 
and I thought of the possibility of some one's shutting it 
for the night, and leaving me a prisoner to await the 
spectres which I have no doubt throng here when it grows 
dark. Hastening up out of these chambers of the past, 
I escaped into the upper air, and walked rapidly home 
through the narrow orange lanes. 



ON TOP OF THE HOUSE. 

THE tip-top of the Villa Nardi is a flat roof, with a 
wall about it three feet high, and some little tur- 
reted afiairs, that look very much like chimneys. Joseph, 
the gray-haired servitor, has brought my chair and table 
up here to-day ; and here I am, established to write. 

I am here above most earthly annoyances, and on a 
level with the heavenly influences. It has always seemed 
to me that the higher one gets, the easier it must be to 
write ; and that, especially at a great elevation, one could 
strike into lofty themes, and launch out, without fear of 
shipwreck on any of the earthly headlands, in his aerial 
voyages. Yet, after all, he would be likely to arrive 
nowhere, I suspect ; or, to change the figure, to find, that, 
in parting with the taste of the earth, he had produced a 
flavorless composition. If it were not for the haze in the 
horizon to-day, I could distinguish the very house in 
Naples — that of Manso, Marquis of Villa — where Tasso 
found a home, and where John Milton was entertained 
at a later day by that hospitable nobleman. I wonder, 
if he had come to the Villa Nardi and written on the 
roof, if the theological features of his epic would have 
been softened, and if he would not have received new 
suggestions for the adornment of the garden. Of course, 
it is well that his immortal production was not composed 
on this roofj and in sight of these seductive shores, or it 
would have been more strongly flavored with classic 
mythology than it is. But, letting Milton go, it may be 
necessary to say, that my writing to-day has nothing to 
228 



ON TOP OF THE HOUSE, 229 

do with my theory of composition in an elevated posi- 
tion ; for this is the laziest place that I have yet found. 

I am above the highest olive-trees ; and, if I turned 
that way, should look over the tops of what seems a vast 
grove of them, out of which a white roof, and an old 
time-eaten tower here and there, appears ; and the sun 
is flooding them with waves of light, which I think a 
person delicately enough organized could hear beat. 
Beyond the brown roofs of the town, the terraced hilis 
arise, in semi-circular embrace of the plain ; and the fine 
veil over them is partly the natural shimmer of the heat, 
and partly the silver duskiness of the olive-leaves. I sit 
with my back to all this, taking the entire force of this 
winter sun; which is full of life and genial heat, and 
does not scorch one, as I remember such a full flood of it 
would at home. It is putting sweetness, too, into the 
oranges ; which, I observe, are" getting redder and softer 
day by day. We have here, by the way, such a habit 
of taking up an orange, weighing it in the hand, and 
guessing if it is ripe, that the test is extending to other 
things. I saw a gentleman this morning, at breakfast, 
weio-hino- an eofs in the same manner; and some one 
asked him if it was ripe. 

It seems to me that the Mediterranean was never 
bluer than it is to-day. It has a shade or two the advan- 
tage of the sky : though I like the sky best, after all ; for 
it Is less opaque, and offers an illimitable opportunity of 
exploration. Perhaps this is because I am nearer to it. 
There are some little ruffles of air on the sea, which I 
do not feel here, making broad spots of shadow, and here 
and there flecks and sparkles. But the schooners sail 
idly ; and the fishing-boats that have put out from the 
marina float in the most dreamy manner. I fear that 
the fishermen who have made a show of industry, and 
got away from their wives, who are busily weaving nets 
on shore, are yielding to the seductions of the occasion, 
and making a day of it. And, as I look at them, I found 
myself debating which I would rather be, a fisherman 
20 



230 ON TOP OF THE HOUSE. 

there in the boat, rocked by the swell, and warmed by 
the sun, or a friar, on the terrace of the garden on the 
summit of Deserto, lying perfectly tranquil, and also 
soaked in the sun. There is one other person, now that 
I think of it, who may be having a good time to-day, 
though I do not know as I envy him. His business is a 
new one to me, and is an occupation that one would not 
care to recommend to a friend until he had tried it : it is 
being carried about in a basket. As I went up the new 
Massa road the other day, I met a ragged, stout, and 
rather dirty woman, with a large shallow basket on her 
head. In it lay her husband, — a large man, though I 
think a little abbreviated as to his legs. The woman 
asked alms. Talk of Diogenes in his tub ! How must 
the world look to a man in a basket, riding about on his 
wife's head ? When I returned, she had put him down 
beside the road in the sun, and almost in danger of the 
passing vehicles. I suppose that the affectionate creature 
thought, that, if he got a new injury in this way, his 
value in the beggar market would be increased. I do 
not mean to do this exemplary wife any injustice ; and I 
only suggest the idea in this land, where every beggar 
who is born with a deformity has something to thank the 
Virgin for. This custom of carrying your husband on 
your head in a basket has something to recommend it, 
and is an exhibition of faith on the one hand, and of 
devotion on the other, that is seldom met with. Its 
consideration is commended to my countrywomen at 
home. . It is, at least, a new commentary on the apos- 
tolic remark, that the man is the head of the woman. 
It is, in some respects, a happy division of labor in the 
walk of life : she furnishes the locomotive power, and he 
the directing brains, as he lies in the sun and looks 
abroad ; which reminds me that the sun is getting hot 
on my back. The little bunch of bells in the convent 
tower is jangling out a suggestion of worship, or of the 
departure of the hours. It is time to eat an orange. 
Vesuvius appears to be about on a level with my eyes ; 



ON TOP OF THE HOUSE. 231 

and I never knew him to do himself more credit than to- 
day. The whole coast of the bay is in a sort of obscura- 
tion, thicker than an Indian summer haze ; and the veil 
extends almost to the top of Vesuvius. But his summit 
is still distinct ; and out of it rises a gigantic billowy 
column of white smoke, greater in quantity than on any 
previous day of our sojourn ; and the sun turns it to sil- 
ver. Above a long line of ordinary-looking clouds, float 
great white masses, formed of the sulphurous vapor. 
This manufacture of clouds in a clear, sunny day has an 
odd appearance ; but it is easy enough, if one has such 
a laboratory as Vesuvius. How it tumbles up the white 
smoke ! It is piled up now, I should say, a thousand 
feet above the crater, straight into the blue sky, — a 
pillar of cloud by day. One might sit here all day, 
watching it, listening the while to the melodious spring 
singing of the hundreds of birds which have come to 
take possession of the garden, receiving Southern re- 
enforcements from Sicily and Tunis every morning, and 
think he was happy. But the morning has gone ; and I 
have written nothing. 



THE PRICE OF ORANGES. 

IF ever a Northern wanderer could be suddenly trans- 
ported to look down upon the Piano di Sorrento, he 
would not doubt that he saw the Garden of the Hes- 
perides. The orange-trees cannot well be fuller : their 
branches bend with the weight of fruit. With the 
almond-trees in full flower, and with the silver sheen of 
the olive leaves, the oranges are apples of gold in pic- 
tures of silver. As I walk in these sunken roads, and 
between these high walls, the orange boughs everywhere 
hang over ; and, through the open gates of villas, I look 
down alleys of golden glimmer, roses and geraniums by 
the walk, and the fruit above, — gardens of enchantment, 
with never a dragon, that I can see, to guard them. 

All the highways and the byways, the streets and 
lanes, wherever I go, from the sea to the tops of the 
hills, are strewn with orange-peel ; so that one, looking 
above and below, comes back from a walk with a golden 
dazzle in his eyes, — a sense that yellow is the prevail- 
ing color. Perhaps the kerchiefs Qjf the dark-skinned 
girls and women, which take that tone, help the impres- 
sion. The inhabitants are all orange-eaters. The high 
walls show that the gardens are protected with great 
care ; yet the fruit seems to be as free as apples are in a 
remote New-England town about cider-time. 

I have been trying, ever since I have been here, to 
ascertain the price of oranges ; not for purposes of ex- 
portation, nor yet for the personal importation that I 
daily practise, but in order to give an American basis 
232 



THE PRICE OF ORANGES. 233 

of fact to these idle chapters. In all the paths, I meet, 
daily, girls and boys bearing on their heads large baskets 
of the fruit, and little children with bags and bundles 
of the same, as large as they can stagger under ; and I 
understand they are carrying them to the packers, who 
ship them to New York, or to the depots, where I see 
them lying in yellow heaps, and where men and women 
are cutting them up, and removing the peel, which goes 
to England for preserves. I am told that these oranges 
are sold for a couple of francs a hundred. That seems 
to me so dear that I am not tempted into any speculation, 
but stroll back to the Tramontano, in the gardens of 
which I find better terms. 

The only trouble is to find a sweet tree ; for the Sor- 
rento oranges are usually sour in February; and one 
needs to be a good judge of the fruit, and know the male 
orange from the female, — though which it is that is the 
sweeter I can never remember (and should not dare to 
say, if I did, in the present state of feeling on the woman 
question), — or he might as well eat a lemon. The 
mercenary aspect of my query does not enter in here. 
I climb into a tree, and reach out to the end of the 
branch for an orange that has got reddish in the sun, 
that comes off easily and is heavy ; or I tickle a large 
one on the top bough with a cane pole ; and if it drops 
readily, and has a fine grain, I call it a cheap one. I 
can usually tell whether they are good,* by splitting them 
open and eating a quarter. The Italians pare their 
oranges as we do apples ; but I like best to open them 
first, and see the yellow meat in the white casket. After 
you have eaten a few from one tree, you can usually tell 
whether it is a good tree ; but there is nothing certain 
about it, — one bough that gets the sun will be better 
than another that does not, and one-half of an orange 
will fill your mouth with more delicious juices than the 
other half. 

The oranges that you knock off with your stick, as 
you walk along the lanes, don't cost any thing ; but they 
20* 



234 T^E PRICE OF ORANGES. 

are always sour, as I think the girls know who lean over 
the wall, and look on with a smile : and, in that, they 
are more sensible than the lively dogs which bark at you 
from the top, and wake all the neighborhood with their 
clamor. I have no doubt the oranges have a market 
price ; but I have been seeking the value the gardeners 
set on them themselves. As I walked towards the 
heights, the other morning, and passed an oi'chard, the 
gardener, who saw my ineffectual efforts, with a M'di^j 
long cane, to reach the boughs of a tree, came down to 
me with a basketful he had been picking. As an exper- 
iment on the price, I offered him a two-centime piece, 

— which is a sort of satire on the very name of money, 

— when he desired me to help myself to as many oranges 
as I liked. He was a fine-looking fellow, with a spick- 
span new red Phrygian cap; and I hadn't the heart 
to take advantage of his generosity, especially as his 
oranges were not of the sweetest. One ought never to 
abuse generosity. 

Another experience was of a different sort, and illus- 
trates the Italian love of bargaining, and their notion of 
a sliding scale of prices. One of our expeditions to the 
hills was one day making its long, straggling way through 
the narrow street of a little village of the Piano, when 
I lingered behind my companions, attracted by a hand- 
cart with several large baskets of oranges. The cart 
stood untended in the street ; and selecting; a laro-e 

' or? 

orange, which would measure twelve inches in circum- 
ference, I turned to look for the owner. After some 
time, a fellow got from the open front of the neighboring 
cobbler's shop, where he sat with his lazy cronies, listen- 
ing to the honest gossip of the follower of St. Crispin, 
and sauntered towards me. 

" How much for this ? " I ask. 

" One franc, signor," says the proprietor, with a polite 
bow, holding up one finger. 

I shake my head, and intimate that that is altogether 
too much, in tiact, preposterous. 



THE PRICE OF ORANGES. 235 

The proprietor is very indifferent, and slirugs his 
shoulders in an amiable manner. He picks up a fair, 
handsome orano;e, weighs it in his hand, and holds it up 
temptingly. That also is one franc. 

I suggest one sou as a fair price, a suggestion which 
he only receives with a smile of slight pity, and, I fancy, 
a little disdain. A woman joins him, and also holds up 
this and that gold-skinned one for my admiration. 

As I stand, sorting over the fruit, trying to please 
myself with size, color, and texture, a little crowd has 
gathered round; and I see, by a glance, that all the 
occupations in that neighborhood, including loafing, are 
temporarily suspended to witness the trade. The inter- 
est of the circle visibly increases ; and others take such 
a part in the transaction, that I begin to doubt if the 
first man is, after all, the proprietor. 

At length I select two oranges, and again demand the 
price. There is a little consultation and jabber, when I 
am told that I can have both for a franc. I, in turn, sigh, 
shrug my shoulders, and put down the oranges, amid a 
chorus of exclamations over my graspingness. My offer 
of two sous is met with ridicule, but not with indiffer- 
ence. I can see that it has made a sensation. These 
simple, idle children of the sun begin to show a little 
excitement. I at length determine upon a bold stroke, 
and resolve to show myself the Napoleon of oranges, or 
to meet my Waterloo. I pick out four of the largest 
oranges in the basket, while all eyes are fixed on me 
intently, and, for the first time, pull out a piece of money. 
It is a two-sous piece. I offer it for the four oranges." 

" No, no, no, no, signor ! Ah, signor ! ah, signor ! " in 
a chorus from the whole crowd. 

I have struck bottom at last, and perhaps got some- 
where near the value ; and all calmness is gone. Such 
protestations, such indignation, such sorrow, I have never 
seen before from so small a cause. It cannot be thought 
of; it is mere ruin ! I am, in turn, as firm, and nearly 
as excited in seeming. I hold up the fruit, and tender 
the money. 



236 THE PRICE OF ORANGES. 

" No, never, never ! The signer cannot be in earnest." 

Looking round me for a moment, and assuming a the- 
atrical manner, befitting the gestures of those about me, 
I fling the fruit down, and, with a sublime renunciation, 
stalk away. 

There is instantly a buzz and a hum that rises almost 
to a clamor. I have not proceeded far, when a skinny 
old woman runs after me, and begs me to retm'n. I go 
back, and the crowd parts to receive me. 

The proprietor has a new proposition, the effect of which 
upon me is intently watched. He proposes to give me five 
big oranges for four sous. I receive it with utter scorn, and 
a laugh of derision. I will give two sous for the origi- 
nal four, and not a centesimo more. That I solemnly 
say, and am ready to depart. Hesitation and renewed 
conference ; but at last the proprietor relents ; and, with 
the look of one who is ruined for life, and who yet is 
willing to sacrifice himself, he hands me the oranges. 
Instantly the excitement is dead, the crowd disperses, and 
the street is as .quiet as ever ; when I walk away, bearing 
my hard-won treasures. 

A little while alter, as I sat upon the outer wall of the 
terrace of the Camaldoli, with my feet hanging over, 
these same oranges were taken from my pockets by 
Americans; so that I am prevented from making any 
moral reflections upon the honesty of the Italians. 

There is an immense garden of oranges and lemons 
at the village of Massa, through which travellers are 
shown by a surly fellow, who keeps watch of his trees, 
and has a bull-dog lurking about for the unwary. I hate 
to see a bull-dog in a fruit-orchard. I have eaten a good 
many oranges there, and been astonished at the boughs 
of immense lemons which bend the trees to the ground. 
I took occasion to measure one of the lemons, called a 
citron-lemon, and found its circumference to be twenty- 
one inches one way by fifteen inches the other, — about 
as big as a railway-conductor's lantern. These lemons 
are not so sour as the fellow who shows them : he is a 



THE PRICE OF ORANGES. 237 

mercenary dog, and his prices afford me no clew to the 
just value of oranges. 

I like better to go to a little garden in the village of 
Meta, under a sunny precipice of rocks, overhung by the 
ruined convent of Camaldoli. I turn up a narrow lane, 
and push open the wooden door in the garden of a little 
villa. It is a pretty garden ; and, besides the orange 
and lemon trees on the terrace, it has other fruit-trees, 
and a scent of many flowers. My friend, the gardener, 
is sorting oranges from one basket to another, on a green 
bank, and evidently selling the fruit to some women, 
who are putting it into bags to carry away. 

When he sees me approach, there is always the same 
pantomime. I propose to take some of the fruit he is 
sorting. With a knowing air, and an appearance of 
great mystery, he raises his left hand, the palm toward 
me, as one says bush. Having despatched his business, 
he takes an empty basket, and with another mysterious 
flourish, desiring me to remain quiet, he goes to a store- 
house in one corner of the garden, and returns with a 
load of immense oranges, all soaked with the sun, ripe 
and fragrant, and more tempting than lumps of gold. I 
take one, and ask him if it is sweet. He shrugs his 
shoulders, raises his haiids, and, with a sidewise shake 
of the head, and a look which says. How can you be so 
faithless ? makes me ashamed of my doubts. 

I cut the thick skin, which easily falls apart, and dis- 
closes the luscious quarters, plump, juicy, and waiting to 
melt in the mouth. I look for a moment at the rich pulp 
in its soft incasement, and then try a delicious morsel. 
I nod. My gardener again shrugs his shoulders, with a 
slight smile, as much as to say, it could not be otherwise, 
and is evidently delighted to have me enjoy his fruit. ^ I fill 
capacious pockets with the choicest ; and, if I have friends 
with me, they do the same. I give our silent but most 
expressive entertainer half a franc, never more ; and he 
always seems surprised at the size of the largesse. We 
exhaust his basket, and he proposes to get more. 



238 THE PRICE OF ORANGES. 

When I am alone, I stroll about under the heavily- 
laden trees, and pick up the largest, where they lie 
thickly on the ground, liking to hold them in my hand 
and feel the agreeable weight, even when I can carry 
away no more. The gardener neither follows nor watches 
me ; and I think perhaps knows, and is not stingy about 
it, that more valuable to me than the oranges I eat or 
take away are those on the trees among the shining 
leaves. And perhaps he opines that I am from a coun- 
try of snow and ice, where the year has six hostile 
months, and that I have not money enough to pay for 
the rich possession of the eye, the picture of beauty, 
which I take with me. 



FASCINATION. 

THERE are three places where I should like to live ; 
namino; them in the inverse order of preference, — 
the Isle of Wight, Sorrento, and Heaven. The first two 
have something in common, — the almost mystic union 
of sky and sea and shore, a soft atmospheric suffusion 
that works an enchantment, and puts one into a dreamy 
mood. And yet there are decided contrasts. The super- 
abundant, soaking sunshine of Sorrento is of very differ- 
ent quality from that of the Isle of Wight. On the 
island there is a sense of home, which one misses on this 
promontory, the fascination of which, no less strong, is 
that of a southern beauty, whose charms conquer rather 
than win. I remember with what feeling I one day 
unexpectedly read on a white slab, in the little enclosure 
of Bonchurch, where the sea whispered as gently as the 
rustle of the ivy-leaves, the name of John Sterling. 
Could there be any fitter resting-place for that tost, 
weary, and gentle spirit V There I seemed to know he 
had the rest that he could not have anywhere on these 
brilliant historic shores. Yet so impressible was his sen- 
sitive nature, that I doubt not, if he had given himself 
up to the enchantment of these coasts in his lifetime, it 
would have led him by a spell he could not break. 

I am sometimes in doubt what is the spell of Sorrento, 
and half believe that it is independent of any thing visi- 
ble. There is said to be a fatal enchantment about Capri. 
The influences of Sorrento are not so dangerous, but are 
almost as marked. I do not wonder that the Greeks 

239 



240 FASCINA TION. 

peopled every cove and sea-cave with divinities, and built 
temples on every headland and rocky islet here; that the 
Romans built upon the Grecian ruins ; that the ecclesi- 
astics in succeeding centuries gained possession of all the 
heights, and built convents and monasteries, and set out 
vineyards, and orchards of olives and oranges, and took 
root as the creeping plants do, spreading themselves 
abroad in the sunshine and charming air. The Italian 
of to-day does not willingly emigrate, is tempted by no 
seduction of better fortune in any foreign clime. And so 
in all ages the swarming populations have clung to these 
shores, filling all the coasts and every nook in these almost 
inaccessible hills with life. Perhaps the delicious climate, 
which avoids all extremes, sufficiently accounts for this ; 
and yet I have sometimes thought there is a more subtle 
reason why travellers from far lands are spell-bound here, 
often against will and judgment, week after week, month 
after month. 

However this may be, it is certain that strangers who 
come here, and remain long enough to get entangled in 
the meshes which some influence, I know not what, throws - 
around them, are in danger of never departing. I know 
there are scores of travellers, who whisk down from 
Naples, guide-book in hand, goaded by the fell purpose 
of seeing every place in Europe, ascend some height, buy 
a load of the beautiful inlaid wood-work, perhaps row 
over to Capri and stay five minutes in the azure grotto, 
and then whisk away again, untouched by the glamour 
of the place. Enough that they write " delightful spot" 
in their diaries, and hurry ofi' to new scenes, and more 
noisy life. But the visitor who yields himself to the place 
will soon find his power of will departing. ,Some satiri- 
cal people say, that, as one grows strong in body here, 
he becomes weak in mind. The theory I do not accept : 
one simply folds his sails, unships his rudder, and waits 
the will of Providence, or the arrival of some compelling 
fate. The longer one remains, the more difficult it is to 
go. We have a fashion — indeed, I may call it a habit 



FASCINA TION, '2.Ji^\ 

— of deciding to go, and of never going. It is a subject 
of infinite jest among the habitues of the villa, who meet 
at table, and who are always bidding each other good- 
by. We often go so far as to write to Naples at night, 
and bespeak rooms in the hotels ; but we always counter- 
mand the order before we sit down to breakfast. The 
good-natured mistress of affairs, the head of the bureau 
of domestic relations, is at her wits' end, with guests who 
always promise to go and never depart. There are here 
a gentleman and his wife, English people of decision 
enough, I presume, in Cornwall, who packed their lug- 
gage before Christmas to depart, but who have not gone 
towards the end of February, — who daily talk of going, 
and little by little unpack their wardrobe, as their deter- 
mination oozes out. It is easy enough to decide at night 
to go next day ; but in the morning, when the soft sun- 
shine comes in at the window, and when we descend and 
walk in the garden, all our good intentions vanish. It is 
not simply that we do not go away, but we have lost the 
motive for those long excursions which we made at first, 
and which more adventurous travellers indulge in. 
There are those here who have intended for weeks to 
spend a day on Capri. Perfect day for the expedition 
succeeds perfect day, boat-load after boat-load sails away 
from the little marina at the base of the clitF, which we 
follow with eyes of desire, but — to-morrow will do as 
well. We are powerless to break the enchantment. 

1 confess to the fancy that there is some subtle influ- 
ence working this sea-change in us, which the guide- 
books, in their enumeration of the delights of the region, 
do not touch, and which maybe reaches back beyond the 
Christian era. I have always supposed that the story of 
Ulysses and the Sirens was only a fiction of the poets, 
intended to illustrate the allurements of a soul given 
over to pleasure, and deaf to the call of duty and the 
excitement of a grapple with the world. But a lady here, 
herself one of the entranced, tells me, that whoever climbs 
the hills behind Sorrento, and looks upon the Isle of the 



242 FASCINA TION. 

Sirens, is struck with an inability to form a desire to 
depart from these coasts. I have gazed at those islands 
more than once, as they lie there in the Bay of Salerno ; 
and it has always happened that they have been in a 
half-misty and not uncolored sunlight, but not so draped 
that I could not see they were only three irregular rocks, 
not far from shore, one of them with some ruins on it. 
There are neither Sirens there now, nor any other 
creatures ; but I should be sorry to think I should never 
see them again. When I look down on them, I can also 
turn and behold on the other side, across the Bay of 
Naples, the Posilipo, where one of the enchanters who 
threw magic over them is said to lie in his high tomb at 
the opening of the grotto. Whether he does sleep in his 
urn in that exact spot is of no moment. Modern life has 
dis-illusioned this region to a great extent ; but the 
romance that the old poets have woven about these bays 
and rocky promontories comes very easily back upon one 
who submits himself long to the eternal influences of sky 
and sea which made them sing. It is all one, — to be a 
Roman poet in his villa, a lazy friar of the Middle Ages 
toasting in the sun, or a modern idler, who has drifted 
here out of the active currents of life, and cannot make 
up his mind to depart. 



MONKISH PERCHES. 

ON heights at either end of the Piano di Sorrento, 
and commanding it, stood two religious houses : 
the Convent of the Camaldoli to the north-east, on the 
crest of the hill above Meta; the Carthusian Monastery 
of the Deserto, to the south-west, three miles above Sor- 
rento. The longer I stay here, the more respect I have 
for the taste of "the monks of the Middle Ages. They 
invariably secured the best places for themselves. They 
seized all the strategic points ; they appropriated all the 
commanding heights ; they knew where the sun would 
best strike the grape-vines; they perched themselves 
wherever there was a royal view. When I see how 
unerringly they did select and occupy the eho;ible places, 
I think'^they were moved by a sort of inspiration. In 
those days, when the Church took the first choice in 
every thing, the temptation to a Christian life must 
have been strong. 

The monastery at the Deserto was suppressed by the 
French of the first republic, and has long been in a ruin- 
ous condition. Its buildings crown the apex of the high- 
est elevation in this part of the promontory : from its roof 
the fathers paternally looked down upon the churches 
and chapels and nunneries which thickly studded all 
this region ; so that I fancy the air must have been full 
of the sound of bells, and of incense perpetually ascend- 
ing. They looked also upon St. Agata under the hill, 
with a church bigger than itself; upon more distinct 
Massa, with its chapels and cathedral and overlooking 

243 



244 MONKISH PERCHES. 

feudal tower ; upon Torca, the Greek Theorica, witli its 
Temple of Apollo, the scene yet of an annual religious 
festival, to which the peasants of Sorrento go as their 
ancestors did to the slirine of the heathen god; upon 
olive and orange orchards, and winding paths and way- 
side shrines innumerable. A sweet and peaceful scene 
in the foreground, it must have been, and a whole hori- 
zon of enchantment beyond the sunny peninsula over 
which it lorded : the Mediterranean, with poetic Capri, 
and Ischia, and all the classic shore from Cape Misenum, 
Baiae, and Naples, round to Vesuvius ; all the sparkling 
Bay of Naples ; and on the other side, the Bay of S derno, 
covered with the fleets of the commerce of Amalfi, then 
a republican city of fifty thousand people ; and Grecian 
Psestum on the marshy shore, even then a ruin, its de- 
serted porches and columns monuments of an archi- 
tecture never equalled elsewhere in Italy. Upon this 
charming perch, the old Carthusian monks took the 
summer breezes and the winter sun, pruned their olives, 
and trimmed their grape-vines, and said prayers for the 
poor sinners toiling in the valleys below. 

The monastery is a desolate old shed now. We left 
our donkeys to eat thistles in front, while we climbed up 
some dilapidated steps, and entered the crumbling hall. 
The present occupants are half a dozen monks, and fine 
fellows too, who have an orphan school of some twenty 
lads. We were invited to witness their noonday pray- 
ers. The flat-roofed rear buildings extend round an 
oblong, quadrangular space, which is a rich garden, 
watered from capacious tanks, and coaxed into easy 
fertility by the impregnating sun. Upon these roofs 
the brothers were wont to walk, and here they sat at 
peaceful evening. Here, too, we strolled ; and here I 
could not resist the temptation to lie an unheeded hour 
or two, soaking in the benignant February sun, above 
every human concern and care, looking upon a land 
and sea steeped in romance. The sky was blue above ; 
but in the south horizon, in the direction of Tunis, were 



MONKISH PERCHES. 



245 



the prismatic colors. Why not be a monk, and lie in 
the sun ? 

One of the handsome brothers invited us into the 
refectory, a place as bare and cheerless as the feeding- 
room of a reform school, and set before us bread ami 
cheese, and red wine, made by the monks. I notice 
that the monks do not water their wine so much as 
the osteria keepers do ; which speaks equally well for 
their religion and their taste. The floor of the room 
was brick, the table plain boards, and the seats were 
benches ; not much luxury. The monk who served us 
was an accomplished man, travelled, and master of sev- 
eral languages. He spoke Enghsh a little. He had 
been several years in America, and was much interested 
when we told him our nationality. 

" Does the signor live near Mexico ? " 

" Not in dangerous proximity," we replied ; but we 
did not forfeit his good opinion by saying that we 
visited it but seldom. 

Well, he had seen all quarters of the globe : he had 
been for years a traveller, but he had come back here 
with a stronger love for it than ever ; it was to him the 
most delightful spot on earth, he said. And we could 
not tell him where its equal is. If I had nothing else to 
do, I think I should cast in my lot with him, — at least 
for a week. 

But the monks never got into a cosier nook than the 
Convent of the Camaldoli. That also is suppressed: its 
gardens, avenues, colonnaded walks, terraces, buildings, 
half in ruins. It is the level surface of a hill, sheltered 
on the east by higher peaks, and on the north by the 
more distant range of Great St. Angelo, across the val- 
ley, and is one of the most extraordinarily fertile plots 
of ground I ever saw. The rich ground responds gener- 
ously to the sun. I should like to have seen the abbot 
who grew on this fat spot. The workmen were busy in 
the garden, spading and pruning. 

A group of wild, half-naked children came about us 



246 MONKISH PERCHES. 

begging, as we sat upon the walls of the terrace, — the 
terrace which overhangs the busy plain below, and which 
commands the entire, varied, nooky promontory, and the 
two bays. And these children, insensible to beauty, want 
centesimi ! 

In the rear of the church are some splendid specimens 
of the umbrella-like Italian pine. Here we found, also, 
a pretty little ruin, — it might be Greek and it might be 
Druid for any thing that appeared, — ivy-clad, and sug- 
gesting a religion older than that of the convent. To 
the east we look into a fertile, terraced ravine ; and 
beyond to a precipitous brown mountain, which shows 
a sharp outline against the sky ; half-way up are nests 
of towns, white houses, churches, and above, creeping 
along the slope, the thread of an ancient road, with 
stone arches at intervals, as old as Cassar. 

We descend, skirting for some distance the monastery 
walls, over which patches of ivy hang like green shawls. 
There are flowers in profusion, — scented violets, daisies, 
dandelions, and crocuses, large and of the richest vari- 
ety, with orange pistils, and stamens purple and violet, - 
the back of every alternate leaf exquisitely pencilled. 

We descend into a continuous settlement, past shrines, 
past brown, sturdy men and handsome girls working in 
the vineyards ; we descend — but words express noth- 
ing — into a wonderful ravine, a sort of refined Swiss 
scene, — high, bare steps of rock butting over a chasm, 
ruins, old walls, vines, flowers. The very spirit of peace 
is here, and it is not disturbed by the sweet sound of 
bells echoed in the passes. On narrow ledges of pre- 
cipices, aloft in the air where it would seem that a bird 
could scarcely light, we distinguish the forms of men 
and women ; and their voices come down to us. They 
are peasants cutting grass, every spire of which is too 
precious to waste. 

We descend, and pass by a house on a knoll, and a 
terrace of olives extending along the road in front. Half 
a dozen children come to the road to look at us as we 



MONKISH PERCHES. 247 

approach, and then scamper back to the house in fear," 
tumbling over each other and shouting, the eldest girl 
making good her escape with the baby. My companion 
swings his hat, and cries, " Hullo, baby ! " And when we 
have passed the gate, and are under the wall, the whole 
ragged, brown-skinned troop scurry out upon the terrace, 
and run along, calling after us, in perfect English, as 
long as we keep in sight, " Hullo, baby ! " " Hullo, baby ! " 
The next traveller who goes that way will no doubt be 
hailed by the quick-witted natives with this salutation ; 
and, if he is of a philological turn, he will probably ben- 
efit his mind by running the phrase back to its ultimate 
Greek roots. 



A DRY TIME. 

FOR three years, once upon a time, it did not rain in- 
Sorrento. Not a drop out of the clouds for three 
years, an Italian lady here, born in Ireland, assures me. 
If there was an occasional shower on the Piano during 
all that drought, I have the confidence in her to think 
that she would not spoil the story by noticing it. 

The conformation of the hills encircling the plain 
would be likely to lead any shower astray, and discharge 
it into the sea, with whatever good intentions it may 
have started down the promontory for Sorrento. I can 
see how these sharp hills would tear the clouds asunder, 
and let out all their water, while the people in the plain 
below watched them with longing eyes. But it can rain 
in Sorrento. Occasionally the north-east wind comes 
down with whirling, howling fury, as if it would scoop 
villao;es and orchards out of the little nook ; and the 
rain, riding on the v/hirlwind, pours in drenching floods. 
At such times I hear the beat of the waves at the foot 
of the rock, and feel like a prisoner on an island. Eden 
would not be Eden in a rain-storm. 

The drought occurred just after the expulsion of the 
Bourbons from Naples, and many think on account of it. 
There is this to be said in favor of the Bourbons : that a 
dry time never had occurred while they reigned, — a 
statement in which all good Catholics in Sorrento will 
concur. As the drought went on, almost all the wells in 
the place dried up, except that of the Tramontane and 
248 



A DRY TIME. 249 

the one in tlie suppressed convent of the Sacred Heart, — 
I think that is its name. 

It is a rambling pile of old buildings, in the centre of 
the town, with a court-yard in the middle, and in it a 
deep well, boring down I know not how far into the rock, 
and always full of cold, sweet water. The nuns have all 
gone now ; and I look in vain up at the narrow slits in 
the masonry, which served them for windows, for the 
glance of a worldly or a pious eye. The poor people of 
Sorrento, when the public wells and fountains had gone 
dry, used to come and draw at the Tramontano ; but they 
were not allowed to go to the well of the convent, — the 
gates were closed. Why the Government shut them I 
cannot see : perhaps it knew nothing of it, and some 
stupid official took the pompous responsibility. The peo- 
ple grumbled, and cursed the Government ; and, in their 
simplicity, probably never took any steps to revoke the 
prohibitory law. No doubt, as the Government had 
caused the drought, it was all of a piece, the good rustics 
thought. 

For the Government did indirectly occasion the dry 
spell. I have the information from the Italian lady of 
whom I have spoken. Among the first steps of the new 
Government of Italy was the suppression of the useless 
convents and nunneries. This one at Sorrento early 
came under the ban. It always seemed to me almost 
a pity to rout out this asylum of praying and charitable 
women, whose occupation was the encouragement of 
beggary and idleness in others, but whose prayers were 
constant, and whose charities to the sick of the little 
city were many. If they never were of much good to 
the community, it was a pleasure to have such a sweet 
little hive in the centre of it ; and I doubt not that the 
simple people felt a genuine satisfaction, as they walked 
around the high walls, in believing that pure prayers 
within were put up for them night and day ; and espe- 
cially when they waked at night, and heard the bell of 
the convent, and knew that at that moment some faith- 



250 A DRY TIME. 

ful soul kept her vigils, and chanted prayers for them 
and all the world besides ; and they slept the sounder for 
it thereafter. I confess, that, if one is helped by vicari- 
ous prayer, I would rather trust a convent of devoted 
women (though many of them are ignorant, and some 
of them are worldly, and none are fair to see) to pray 
for me, than some of the houses of coarse monks which I 
have seen. 

But the order came down from Naples to pack off all 
the nuns of the Sacred Heart on a day named, to close 
up the gates of the nunnery, and hang a flaming sword 
outside. The nuns were to be pulled up by the roots, so 
to say, on the day specified, and without postponement, 
and to be transferred to a house prepared for them at 
Massa, a few miles down the promontory, and several 
hundred feet nearer heaven. Sorrento was really in 
momming : it went about in grief. It seemed as if some- 
thing sacrilegious were about to be done. It was the 
intention of the whole town to show its sense of it in 
some way. 

The day of removal came, and it rained ! It poured : 
the water came down in sheets, in torrents, in deluges ; 
it came down with the wildest tempest of many a year. 
I think, from accurate reports of those who witnessed it, 
that the beginning of the. great Deluge was only a moist- 
ure compared to this. To turn the poor women out of 
doors such a day as this, was unchristian, barbarous, 
impossible. Everybody who had a shelter was shivering 
in-doors. But the officials were inexorable. In the 
order for removal, nothing was said about postponement 
on account of- weather ; and go the nuns must. 

And go they did ; the whole town shuddering at the 
impiety of it, but kept from any demonstration by the 
tempest. Carriages went round to the convent ; and 
the women were loaded into them, packed into them, 
carried and put in, if they were too infirm to go them- 
selves. They were driven away, cross and wet and be- 
draggled. They ibund their dwelling on the hill not 



A DRY TIME. 251 

half prepared for them, leaking and cold and cheerless. 
They experienced very rough treatment, if I can credit 
my informant, who says she hates the Government, and 
would not even look out of her lattice that day to see 
the carriages drive past. 

And when the Lady Superior was driven away from 
the gate, she said to the officials, and the few faithful 
attendants, prophesying in the midst of the rain that 
poured about her, — 

" The day will come shortly, when you will want rain, 
and shall not have it ; and you will pray for my return." 

And it did not rain, from that day for three years. 
And the simple people thought of the good Superior, 
whose departure had been in such a deluge, and who 
had taken away with her all the moisture of the land ; 
and they did pray for her return, and believed that the 
gates of heaven would be again opened if only the nun- 
nery were repeopled. But the Government could not 
see the connection between convents and the theory of 
storms, and the remnant of pious women was permitted 
to remain in their lodgings at Massa. Perhaps the 
Government thought they could, if they bore no malice, 
pray as effectually for rain there as anywhere. 

I do not know, said my informant, that the curse of 
the Lady Superior had any thing to do with the drought, 
but many think it had ; and those are the facts. 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN. 

THE common people of this region are nothing but 
children ; and ragged, dirty, and poor as they are, 
apparently as happy, to speak idiomatically, as the day 
is long. It takes very little to please them ; and their 
easily-excited mirth is contagious. It is very rare that 
one gets a surly return to a salutation ; and, if one shows 
the least good-nature, his greeting is met with the most 
jolly return. The boatman hauling in his net sings; 
the brown girl, whom we meet descending a steep path 
in the hills, with an enormous bag; or basket of orano-ea 
on her head, or a building-stone under which she stands 
as erect as a pillar, sings ; and, if she asks for something, 
there is a merry twinkle in her eye, that says she hardly 
expects money, but only puts in a " beg " at a venture, 
because it is the fashion ; the workmen clipping the 
olive-trees sing; the urchins, who dance about the 
foreigner in the street, vocalize their petitions for un po' 
di moneta in a tuneful manner, and beg more in a spirit 
of deviltry than with any expectation of gain. When 
I see how hard the peasants labor, what scraps and 
vegetable odds and ends they eat, and in what wretched, 
dark, and smoke-dried apartments they live, I wonder 
they are happy ; but I suppose it is the all-nourishing 
sun and the equable climate that do the business for 
them. They have few artificial wants, and no uneasy 
expectation, — bred by the reading of books and news- 
papers, — that any thing is going to happen in the 
world, or that any change is possible. Their fruit-trees 
252 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN. 253 

yield abundantly year after year ; their little patches of 
rich earth, on the built-up terraces and in the crevices 
of the rocks, produce fourfold. The sun does it all. 

Every walk that we take here with open mind and 
cheerful heart is sure to be an adventure. Only yester- 
day, we were coming down a branch of the great gorge 
which splits the plain in two. On one side the path is 
a high wall, with garden trees overhanging. On the 
other, a stone parapet ; and below, in the bed of the 
ravine, an orange orchard. Beyond rises a precipice; 
and, at its foot, men and boys were quarrying stone, 
which workmen raised a couple of hundred feet to the 
platform above with a windlass. As we came along, a 
handsome girl on the height had just taken on her head 
a large block of stone, which I should not care to lift, 
to carry to a pile in the rear ; and she stopped to look 
at us. We stopped, and looked at her. This attracted 
the attention of the men and boys in the quarry below, 
who stopped work, and set up a cry for a little money. 
We laughed, and responded in English. The windlass 
ceased to turn. The workmen on the height joined in 
the conversation. A grizzly beggar hobbled up, and held 
out his greasy cap. We nonplussed him by extending 
our hats, and beseeching him for just a little something. 
Some passers on the road paused, and looked on, amused 
at the transaction. A boy appeared on the high wall, 
and began to beg. I threatened to shoot him with my 
walking-stick, whereat he ran nimbly along the wall in 
terror. The workmen shouted ; and this started up a 
couple of yellow dogs, which came to the edge of the 
wall, and barked violently. The girl, alone calm in the 
confusion, stood stock still under her enormous load, 
looking at us. We swung our hats, and hurrahed. The 
crowd replied from above, below, and around us ; shout- 
ing, laughing, singing, until the whole little valley was 
vocal with a gale of merriment, and all about nothing. 
The beggar whined ; the spectators around us laughed ; 
and the whole population was aroused into a jolly mood. 
22 



254 CHILDREN OF THE SUN. 

Fancy such a merry hullaballoo in America. For ten 
minutes, wlaile the funny row was going on, the girl 
never moved, having forgotten to go a few steps, and 
deposit her load ; and, when we disappeared round a 
bend of the path, she was still watching us, smiling and 
statuesque. 

As we descend, we come upon a group of little chil- 
dren seated about a door-step, black-eyed, chubby little 
urchins, who are cutting oranges into little bits, and 
playing " party," as children do on the other side of the 
Atlantic. The instant we stop to speak to them, the 
skinny hand of an old woman is stretched out of a win- 
dow just above our heads, the wrinkled palm itching for 
money. The mother comes forward out of the house, 
evidently pleased with our notice of the children, and 
shows us the baby in her arms. At once we are on good 
terms with the whole family. The woman sees that 
there is nothing impertinent in our cursory inquiry into 
her domestic concerns, but, I fancy, knows that we are 
genial travellers, with human sympathies. So the people 
universally are not quick to suspect any imposition, and 
meet frankness with frankness, and good-nature with 
good-nature, in a simple-hearted, primeval manner. If 
they stare at us from doorway and balcony, or come and 
stand near us when we sit reading or writing by the 
shore, it is only a childlike curiosity, and they are quite 
unconscious of any breach of good manners. In fact, I 
think travellers have not much to say in the matter of 
staring, I only pray that we Americans abroad may 
remember that we are in the presence of older races, 
and conduct ourselves with becoming modesty, remem- 
bering always, that we were not born in Britain. 

Very hkely I am in error ; but it has seemed to me that 
even the funerals here are not so gloomy as in other 
places. I have looked in at the churches when they are 
in progress, now and then, and been struck with the gen- 
eral good feeling of the occasion. The real mourners, I 
could not always distinguish; but the seats would be 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN. 255 

filled with a motley gathering of the idle and the ragged, 
■who seemed to enjoy the show and the ceremony. On 
one occasion, it was the obsequies of an officer in the 
army. Guarding the gilded casket, which stood upon a 
raised platform before the altar, were four soldiers in uni- 
form. Mass was being said and sung ; and a priest was 
playing the organ. The church was light and cheerful, 
and pervaded by a pleasant bustle. Kagged boys and 
beggars, and dirty children and dogs, went and came 
wherever they chose about the unoccupied spaces of the 
church. The hired mourners, who are numerous in pro- 
portion to the rank of the deceased, were clad in white 
cotton, — a sort of night-gown put on over the ordinary 
clothes, with a hood of the same drawn tightly over the 
face, in which slits were cut for the eyes and mouth. 
Some of them were seated on benches near the front ; 
others were wandering about among the pillars, disap- 
pearing in the sacristy, and re-appearing with an aimless 
aspect, altogether conducting themselves as if it were a 
holiday, and, if there was any thing they did enjoy, it was 
mourning at other people's expense. They laughed and 
talked with each other in excellent spirits ; and one varlet 
near the coffin, who had slipped off his mask, winked at 
me repeatedly, as if to inform me that it was not his 
funeral. A masquerade might Lave been more gloomy 
and depressing. 



SAINT ANTONINO. 

THE most serviceable saint whom I know is St. Anto- 
nino. He is the patron saint of the good town of 
Sorrento ; he is the good genius of all sailors and fisher- 
men ; and he has a humbler oflice, — that of protector of 
the pigs. On his day the pigs are brought into the pub- 
lic square to be blessed ; and this is one reason why the 
pork of Sorrento is reputed so sweet and wholesome. 
The saint is the friend, and, so to say, companion of the 
common people. They seem to be all fond of him, and 
there is little of fear in their confiding relation. His 
humble origin and plebeian appearance have something 
to do with his popularity, no doubt. There is nothing 
awe-inspiring in the brown stone figure, battered and 
cracked, that stands at one corner of the bridge, over the 
chasm at the entrance of the city. He holds a crosier in 
one hand, and raises the other, with fingers uplifted, in 
act of benediction. If his face is an indication of his 
character, he had in him a mixture of robust good-nature 
witt a touch of vulgarity, and could rough it in a jolly 
manner with fishermen and peasants. He may have 
appeared to better advantage when he stood on top 
of the massive old city gate, which the present Govern- 
ment, with the impulse of a Vandal, took down a few 
years ago. The demolition had to be accomplished in the 
night, under a guard of soldiers, so indignant were the 
populace. At that time the homely saint was deposed ; 
and he wears now, I think, a snubbed and cast-aside 
aspect. Perhaps he is dearer to the people than ever ; 
256 



SAINT ANTONINO. 257 

and I confess that I like him much better than many 
grander saints, in stone, I have seen in more conspicuous 
places. If ever I am in rough water and foul weather, I 
hope he will not take amiss any thing I have here written 
about him. 

Sunday, and it happened to be St. Valentine's also, 
was the great fete-day of St. Antonino. Early in the 
morning there was a great clanging of bells ; and the 
ceremony of the blessing of the pigs took place, I heard, 
but I was not abroad early enough to see it, — a laziness 
for which I fancy I need not apologize, as the Catholic 
is known to be an earlier religion than the Protestant. 
When I did go out, the streets were thronged with peo- 
ple, the country-folk having come in from miles around. 
The church of the patron saint was the great centre of 
attraction. The blank walls of the little square in front, 
and of the narrow streets near, were hung with cheap and 
highly-colored lithographs of sacred subjects, for sale ; 
tables and booths were set up in every available space 
for the traffic in pre-Raphaelite gingerbread, molasses 
candy, strings of dried nuts, pine-cone and pumpkin seeds, 
scarfs, boots and shoes, and all sorts of trumpery. One 
dealer had pre-empted a large space on the pavement, 
where he had spread out an assortment of bits of old iron, 
nails, pieces of steel traps, and various fragments which 
might be useful to the peasants. The press was so great, 
that it was difficult to get through it ; but the crowd was 
a picturesque one, and in the highest good-humor. The 
occasion was a sort of Fourth of July, but without its 
worry and powder and flowing bars. 

The spectacle of the day was the procession, bearing 
the silver image of the saint through the streets. I 
think there could never be any thing finer or more impres- 
sive ; at least, I like these little fussy provincial displays, 
— these tag-rags and ends of grandeur, in which all the 
populace devoutly believe, and at which they are lost in 
wonder, — better than those imposing ceremonies at the 
capital, in which nobody believes. There was first a 
22* 



258 SAINT ANTONINO. 

band of musicians, walking in more or less disorder, but 
blowing away with ^reat zeal, so that they could be heard 
amid the clangor of bells the peals of which reverberate 
so deafeningly between the high houses of these narrow 
streets. Then follow boys in white, and citizens in black 
and white robes, carrying huge silken banners, triangular 
like sea-pennants, and splendid silver crucifixes which 
flash- in the sun. Then come ecclesiastics, walking with 
stately step, and chanting in loud and pleasant unison. 
These are followed by nobles, among whom I recognize, 
with a certain satisfaction, two descendants of Tasso, 
whose glowing and bigoted soul may rejoice in the devo- 
tion of his posterity, who help to bear to-day the gilded 
platform upon which is the solid silver image of the saint. 
The good old bishop walks humbly in the rear, in full 
canonical rig, with crosier and mitre, his rich robes 
upborne by priestly attendants, his splendid footman at 
a respectful distance, and his roomy carriage not far 
behind. 

The procession is well spread out and long ; all its 
members carry lighted tapers, a good many of which are 
not lighted, having gone out in the wind. As I squeeze 
into a shallow doorway to let the corteqe pass, I am sony 
to say that several of the young fellows in white gowns 
tip me the wink, and even smile in a knowing fashion, 
as if it were a mere lark, after all, and that the saint must 
know it. But not so thinks the paternal bishop, who 
waves a blessing, which I catch in the flash of the enor- 
mous emerald on his right hand. The procession ends, 
where it started, in the patron's church ; and there his 
image is set up under a gorgeous canopy of crimson and 
gold, to hear high mass, and some of the choicest solos, 
choruses, and bravuras from the operas. 

In the public square I find a gaping and wondering 
crowd of rustics, collected about one of the mountebanks 
whose trade is not peculiar to any country. This one 
might be a clock-peddler from Connecticitt. He is 
mounted in a one-seat vettura, and his horse is quietly 



SAINT AN-TONINO. 259 

eating his dinner out of a bag tied to his nose. There 
is nothing unusual in the fellow's dress ; he wears a 
shiny silk hat, and has one of those grave faces which 
would be merry if their owner were not conscious of 
serious business on hand. On the driver's perch before 
him are arranged his attractions, — a box of notions, a 
grinning skull, Avith full teeth and jaws that work on 
hinges, some vials of red liquid, and a closed jar contain- 
ing a most disagreeable anatomical preparation. This 
latter he holds up and displays, turning it about occa- 
sionally in an admiring manner. He is discoursing, all the 
time, in the most voluble Italian. He has an ointment, 
wonderfully efficacious for rheumatism and every sort of 
bruise : he pulls up his sleeve, and anoints his arm with 
it, binding it up with a strip of paper ; for the simplest 
operation must be explained to these grown children. 
He also pulls teeth, with an ease and expedition hitherto 
unknown, and is in no want of patients among this open- 
mouthed crowd. One sufferer after another climbs up 
into the wagon, and goes through the operation in the 
public gaze. A stolid, good-natured hind mounts the seat. 
The dentist examines his mouth, and finds the offending 
tooth. He then turns to the crowd, and explains the 
case. He takes a little instrument that is neither forceps 
nor turnkey, stands upon the seat, seizes the man's nose, 
and jerks his head round between his knees, pulling 
his mouth open (there is nothing that opens the mouth 
quicker than a sharp upward jerk of the nose) with a 
rude jollity that sets the spectators in a roar. Down he 
goes into the cavern, and digs away for a quarter of a 
minute, the man the while as immovable as a stone 
image, when he holds up the bloody tooth. The patient 
still persists in sitting with his mouth stretched open to 
its widest limit, waiting for the operation to begin, and 
will only close the orifice when he is well shaken and 
shown the tooth. The dentist gives him some yellow 
liquid to hold in his mouth, which the man insists on 
swallowing, wets a handkerchief and washes his face, 



26o SAINT ANTONINO. 

rougHy rubbing his nose the wrong way, and lets him 
go. Every step of the process is eagerly watched by 
the delighted spectators. 

He is succeeded by a woman, who is put through the 
same heroic treatment, and exhibits like fortitude. And 
so they come ; and the dentist after every operation 
waves the extracted trophy high in air, and jubilates 
as if he had won another victory, pointing to the stone 
statue yonder, and reminding them that this is the 
glorious day of St. Antonino. But this is not all that 
this man of science does. He has the genuine elixir 
d'amour, love-philters and powders which never fail in 
their effects. I see the bashful girls and the sheepish 
swains come slyly up to the side of the wagon, and ex- 
change their hard-earned francs for the hopeful prepara- 
tion. O my brown beauty, with those soft eyes and 
cheeks of smothered fire, you have no need of that red 
philter ! What a simple, childlike folk ! The shrewd 
fellow in the waggon is one of a race as old as Thebes and 
as new as Porkopolis ; his brazen face is older than the 
invention of bronze, but I think he never had to do with 
a more credulous crowd than this. The very cunning in 
the face of the peasants is that of the fox ; it is a sort of 
instinct, and not an intelligent suspicion. 

This is Sunday in Sorrento, under the blue sky. These 
peasants, who are fooled by the mountebank and at- 
tracted by the piles of adamantine gingerbread, do not 
forget to crowd the church of the saint at vespers, and 
kneel there in humble faith ; while the choir sings the 
Agnus Dei, and the priests drone the service. Are they 
so different, then, from other people? They have an 
idea on Capri that England is such another island, only 
not so pleasant ; that all Englishmen are rich, and con- 
stantly travel to escape the dreariness at home ; and 
that, if they are not absolutely mad, they are all a little 
queer. It was a fancy prevalent in Hamlet's day. We 
had the English service in the Villa Nardi in the even- 
ing. There are some Englishmen staying here, of the 



SAINT ANTONINO. 261 

class one finds in all tlie sunny spots of Europe, ennuy€ 
and growling, in search of some elixir that shall bring 
back youth and enjoyment. They seem divided in mind 
between the attractions of the equable climate of this 
region, and the fear of the gout which lurks in the unfer- 
mented wine. One cannot be too grateful to the sturdy 
islanders for carrying their prayers, like their drum-beat, 
all round the globe ; and I was much edified that night, 
as the reading went on, by a row of rather battered men 
of the world, who stood in line on one side of the room, 
and took their prayers with a certain British fortitude, 
as if they were conscious of performing a constitutional 
duty, and helping by the act to uphold the majesty of 
English institutions. 



PUNTA BELLA CAMPANELLA. 

THERE is always a mild excitement about mount- 
ing donkeys in the morning here for an excursion 
among the hills. The warm sun pouring into the gar- 
den, the smell of oranges, the stimulating air, the general 
openness and freshness, promise a day of enjoyment. 
There is always a doubt as to who will go ; generally a 
donkey wanting ; somebody wishes to join the party at 
the last moment; there is no end of running up and 
down stairs, calling from balconies and terraces ; some 
never ready, and some waiting below in the sun; the 
whole house in a tumult, drivers in a worry, and the 
sleepy animals now and then joining in the clatter with 
a vocal performance that is neither a trumpet-call nor a 
steam-whistle, but an indescribable noise, that begins in 
agony, and abruptly breaks down in despair. It is diffi- 
cult to get the train in motion. The lady who ordered 
Succarina has got a strange donkey, and Macaroni has 
on the wrong saddle. Succarina is a f.ivorite, the kind- 
est, easiest, and surest-footed of beasts, — a diminutive 
animal, not bigger than a Friesland sheep ; old, in fact 
grizzly with years, and not unlike the aged, wizened 
little women who are so common here : for beauty in 
this region dries up ; and these handsome Sorrento girls, 
if they live, and almost everybody does live, have the 
prospect, in their old a^e, of becoming mummies, with 
parchment skins. I have heard of climates that preserve 
female beauty ; this embalms it, only the beauty escapes 
in the process. As I was saying, Succarina is little, old, 
262 



PUNTA DELIA CAMPANELLA. 263 

and grizzly ; but her head is large, and one might be 
contented to be as wise as she looks. 

The party is at length mounted, and clatters away 
through the narrow streets. Donkey-riding is very good 
for people who think they cannot walk. It looks very 
much like riding, to a spectator ; and it deceives the 
person undertaking it into an amount of exercise equal 
to walking. I have a great admiration for the donkey 
character. There never was such patience under wrong 
treatment, such return of devotion for injury. Their 
obstinacy, which is so much talked about, is only an 
exercise of the right of private judgment, and an intel- 
ligent exercise of it, no doubt, if we could take the don- 
key point of view, as so many of us are accused of doing 
in other things. I am certain of one thing : in ^ any 
large excursion party, there will be more obstinate 
people than obstinate donkeys ; and yet the poor brutes 
get all the thwacks and thumps. We are bound to-day 
for the Punta della Campanella, the extreme point of 
the promontory, and ten miles away. The path lies up 
the steps from the new Massa carriage-road, now on the 
backbone of the ridge, and now in the recesses of the 
broken country. What an animated picture is the don- 
keycade, as it mounts the steeps, winding along the zig- 
zags ! Hear the little bridle-bells jingling, the drivers 
groaning their "a-e-ugh, a-e-ugh," the riders making 
a merry din of laughter, and firing off a fusillade of 
ejaculations of dehglit and wonder. 

The road is between high walls; round the sweep of 
curved terraces which rise above and below us, bearing 
the glistening olive; through glens and guUies ; over 
and under arches, vine-grown, — how little we make use 
of the arch at home ! — round sunny dells where orange 
orchards gleam ; past shrines, little chapels perched on 
rocks, rude villas commanding most extensive sweeps 
of sea and shore. The almond trees are in full bloom, 
every twig a thickly-set spike of the pink and white 
blossoms ;°daisies and dandelions are out ; the purple 



264 PUNTA DELLA CAMPANELLA. 

crocuses sprinkle the ground, the petals exquisitely 
varied on the reverse side, and the stamens of bright sal- 
mon color ; the large double anemones have come forth, 
certain that it is spring ; on the higher crags by the 
wayside, the Mediterranean heather has shaken out its 
delicate flowers, which fill the air with a mild fragrance ; 
while blue violets, sweet of scent like the English, make 
our path a perfumed one. And this is winter. 

We have made a late start, owing to the fact that 
everybody is captain of the expedition, and to the 
Sorrento infirmity that no one is able to make up his 
mind about any thing. It is one o'clock when we reach 
a high transverse ridge, and find the headlands of the 
peninsula rising before us, grim hills of limestone, one 
of them with the ruins of a convent on top, and no 
road apparent thither, and Capri ahead of us in the sea, 
the only bit of land that catches any light ; for as we 
have journeyed, the sky has thickened, the clouds of the 
sirocco have come up from the south ; there has been 
first a mist, and then a fine rain ; the ruins on the peak 
of Santa Costanza are now hid in mist. We halt for 
consultation. Shall we go on and brave a wetting, or 
ignominiously retreat V There are many opinions, but 
few decided ones. The drivers declare that it will be 
a bad time. One gentleman, with an air of decision, 
suo-gests that it is best to go on, or go back, if we do not 
stand here and wait. The deaf lady, from near Dublin, 
being appealed to, says that, perhaps, if it is more 
prudent, we had better go back if it is going to rain. 
It does rain. Water-proofs are put on, umbrellas spread, 
backs turned to the wind ; and we look like a group 
of explorers under adverse circumstances, " silent on a 
peak in Darien," the donkeys especially downcast and 
dejected. Finally, as is usual in life, a compromise pre- 
vails. We decide to continue for half an hour longer, 
and see what the weather is. No sooner have we set 
forward over the brow of a hill than it grows lighter on 
the sea horizon in the south-west, the ruins on the peak 



PUNTA BELLA CAMPANELLA. 265 

become visible, Capri is in full sunlight. The clouds 
lift more and more, and still hanging overhead, but with 
no more rain, are like curtains gradually drawn up, 
opening to us a glorious vista of sunshine and promise, 
an illumined, sparkling, illimitable sea, and a bright 
foreground of slopes and picturesque rocks. Before the 
half-hour is up, there is not one of the party who does 
not claim to have been the person who insisted upon 
going forward. 

We halt for a moment to look at Capri,.that enormous, 
irregular rock, raising its huge back out of the sea, its 
back broken in the middle, with the little village for a 
saddle. On the farther summit, above Anacapri, a pre- 
cipice of two thousand feet sheer down to the water on 
the other side, hangs a light cloud. The east elevation, 
whence the playful Tiberius used to amuse his green old 
age by casting his prisoners eight hundred feet down 
into the sea, has the strong sunlight on it ; and below, 
the row of tooth-like rocks, which are the extreme eastern 
point, shine in a warm glow. We descend through a 
villagre, twisting about in its crooked streets. The in- 
habitants, who do not see strangers every day, make 
free to stare at and comment on us, and even laugh at 
something that seems very comical in our appearance ; 
which shows how ridiculous are the costumes of Paris 
and New York in some places. Stalwart girls, with 
only an apology for clothes, with bare legs, brown faces, 
and beautiful eyes, stop in their spinning, holding the 
distaff suspended, while they examine us at leisure. At 
our left, as we ^nrn from the church and its svLnny piazza, 
where old women sit and gabble, down the ravine, is a 
snug village under the mountain by the shore, with a 
great, square, mediaeval tower. On the right, upon 
rocky points, are remains of round towers, and temples 
perhaps. 

We sweep away to the left round the base of the hill, 
over a difficult and stony path. Soon the last dilapidated 
villa is passed, the last terrace and olive-tree are left be- 
23 



266 PUNTA DELLA CAMPANELLA. 

hind ; and we emerge upon a wild, rocky slope, barren 
of vegetation, except little tufts of grass and a sort of 
lentil ; a wide sweep of limestone strata set on edge, 
and crumbling in the beat of centuries, rising to a con- 
siderable height on the left. Our path descends toward 
the sea, still creeping round the end of the promontory. 
Scattered here and there over the rocks, like conies, are 
peasants, tending a few lean cattle, and digging grasses 
from the crevices. The women and children are wild in 
attire and manner, and set up a clamor of begging as 
we pass. A group of old hags begin beating a poor 
child as we approach to excite our compassion for the 
abused little object, and draw out centimes. 

Walking ahead of the procession, which gets slowly 
down the rugged path, I lose sight of my companions, 
and have the solitude, the sun on the rocks, the glisten- 
ing sea, all to myself. Soon I espy a man below me, 
sauntering down among the rocks. He sees me and 
moves away, a solitary figure. I say solitary ; and so it 
is in efiect, although he is leading a little boy, and call- 
ing to his dog, which runs back to bark at me. Is this 
the brigand of whom I have read, and is he luring me 
to his haunt ? Probably. I follow. He throws his cloak 
about his shoulders, exactly as brigands do in the opera, 
and loiters on. At last there is the point in sight, a gray 
wall with blind arches. The man disappears through ^ 
narrow archway, and I follow. Within is an enormous 
square tower. I think it was built in Spanish days, as 
an outlook for Barbary pirates. A bell hung in it, which 
was set clang-ing: when the white sails of the robbers 
appeared to the southward ; and the alarm was repeated 
up the coast, the towers were manned, and the brown- 
cheeked girls flew away to the hills, I doubt not, for the 
touch of the sirocco was not half so rnuch to be dreaded 
as the rough importunity of a Saracen lover. The bell 
is gone now, and no Moslem rovers were in sight. The 
maidens we had just passed would be safe if there were. 
My brigand disappears round the tower ; and I follow, 



PUNTA DELIA CAMPANELLA. 267 

down steps, by a white wall, and, lo ! a house, — a red, 
stucco, Egyptian-looking building, — on the very edge of 
the rocks. The man unlocks a door and goes in. I con- 
sider this an invitation, and enter. On one side of the 
passage a sleeping-room, on the other a kitchen, not 
sumptuous quarters ; and we come then upon a pretty 
circular terrace ; and there, in its glass case, is the lan- 
tern of the point. My brigand is a lighthouse keeper, 
and welcomes me in a quiet way, glad, evidently, to see 
the face of a civilized being. It is very solitary, he says. 
I should think so. It is the end of every thing. The 
Mediterranean waves beat with a dull thud on the worn 
crags below. The rocks rise up to the sky behind. 
There is nothing there but the sun, an occasional sail, 
and quiet, petrified Capri, three miles distant across the 
strait. It is an excellent place for a misanthrope to 
spend a week, and get cured. There must be a very 
dispiriting influence prevailing here ; the keeper refused 
to take any money, the solitary Italian we have seen so 
affected. 

We returned late. The young moon, lying in the lap 
of the old one, was superintending the brilliant sunset 
over Capri, as we passed the last point commanding it ; 
and the light, fading away, Jeft us stumbling over the 
rough path among the hills, darkened by the high walls. 
We were not sorry to emerge upon the crest above the 
Massa road. For there lay the sea, and the plain of 
Sorrento, with its darkening groves and hundreds of 
twinkling Ughts. As we went down the last descent, 
the bells of the town were all ringing, for it was the eve 
of the fete of St. Antonino. 



CAPRI. 

"/^AP, signer? Good day for Grott." Thus spoke a 
\_J mariner, touching his Phrygian cap. The people 
here abbreviate all names. With them Massa is Mas, 
Meta is Met, Capri becomes Cap, the Grotta Azzurra is 
reduced familiarly to Grott, and they even curtail musical 
Sorrento into Serent. 

Shall we go to Capri ? Should we dare return to the 
great Republic, and own that we had not been into the 
Blue Grotto ? We like to climb the steeps here, espe- 
cially towards Massa, and look at Capri. I have read 
in some book that it used to be always visible from Sorr 
rento. But now the promontory has risen, the Capo di 
Sorrento has thrust out its rocky spur with its ancient 
Roman masonry, and the island itself has moved so far 
round to the south, that Sorrento, which fronts north, 
has lost sight of it. 

We never tire of watching it, thinking that it could 
not be spared from the landscape. It lies only three 
miles from the curving end of the promontory, and is 
about twenty miles due south of Naples. In this atmos- 
phere distances dwindle. The nearest land, to the north- 
west, is the larger island of Ischia, distant nearly as far 
as Naples ; yet Capri has the effect of being anchored off 
the bay to guard the entrance. It is really a rock, three 
miles and a half long, rising straight out of the water, 
eight hundred feet high at one end, and eighteen hun- 
dred feet at the other, with a depression between. If it 
had been chiselled by hand and set there, it could not 
268 



CAPRI. 269 

be more sharply defined. So precipitous are its sides 
of rock, that there are only two fit boat-landings, — the 
marina on the north side, and a smaller place opposite. 
One of those light-haired and freckled Englishmen, 
whose pluck exceeds their discretion, rowed round the 
island alone in rough water, last summer, against the 
advice of the boatman, and unable to make a landing, 
and weary with the strife of the waves, was in consider- 
able peril. 

Sharp and clear as Capri is in outline, its contour is 
still most graceful and poetic. This wonderful atmos- 
phere softens even its ruggedness, and drapes it with 
hues of enchanting beauty. Sometimes the' haze plays 
fantastic tricks with it, — a cloud-cap hangs on Monte 
Solaro, or a mist obscures the base, and the massive 
summits of rock seem to float in the air, baseless fabrics 
of a vision that the rising wind will carry away perhaps. 
I know now what Homer means by " wandering islands." 
Shall we take a boat and sail over there, and so destroy 
forever another island of the imagination ? The bane of 
travel is thfe destruction of illusions. 

We like to talk about Capri, and to talk of going 
there. The Sorrento people have no end of gossip 
about the wild island ; and, simple and primitive as 
they are, Capri is still more out of the world. I do 
not know what enchantment there is on the island; 
but whoever sets foot there, they say, goes insane or 
dies a drunkard. I fancy the reason of this is found 
in the fact that the Capri girls are raving beauties. I 
am not sure but the monotony of being anchored off 
there in the bay, the monotony of rocks and precipices 
that goats alone can climb, the monotony of a tempera- 
ture that scarcely ever, winter and summer, is below 55° 
or above 75° Fahrenheit in-doors, might drive one into 
lunacy. But I incHne to think it is due to the hand- 
some Capri girls. 

There are beautiful girls in Sorrento, with a beauty 
more than skin deep, a glowing, hidden fire, a ripeness 
23* 



270 CAPRI. 

like that of the grape and the peach which grow in the 
soft air and the sun. And they wither, like grapes that 
hang upon the stem. I have never seen a handsome, 
scarcely a decent-looking, old woman here. They are 
lank and dry, and their bones are covered with parch- 
ment. One of these brown-cheeked girls, with large, 
longing eyes, gives the stranger a start, now and then, 
when he meets her in a narrow way with a basket of 
oranges on her head. I hope he has the grace to go 
right by. Let him meditate what this vision of beauty 
will be like in twenty years. 

The Capri girls are famed as magnificent beauties, 
but they fade like their mainland sisters. The Saracens 
used to descend on their island, and carry them off to 
their harems. The English, a very adventurous people, 
who have no harems, have followed the Saracens. The 
young lords and gentlemen have a great fondness for 
Capri. I hear gossip enough about elopements, and not 
seldom mamages, with the island girls, — bright girls, 
with the Greek mother-wit, and surpassingly handsome ; 
but they do not bear transportation to civilized life (any. 
more than some of the native wines do) : they accept no 
intellectual culture ; and they lose their beauty as they 
grow old. What then ? The young English blade, who 
was intoxicated by beauty into an injudicious match^ and 
might, as the proverb says, have gone insane if he could 
not have made it, takes to drink now, and so fulfils the , 
other alternative. Alas ! the fatal gift of beauty. 

But I do not think Capri is so dangerous as it is repre- 
sented. For (of course we went to Capri) neither at the 
marina, where a crowd of barelegged, vociferous maid- 
ens with donkeys assailed us, nor in the village above, 
did I see many girls for whom and one little isle a per- 
son would forswear the world. But I can believe that 
they grow here. • One of our donkey girls was a hand- 
some, dark-skinned, black-eyed girl ; but her little sis- 
ter, a mite of a being of six years, who could scarcely 
step over the small stones in the road, and was forced 



CAPRI. 271 

to lead the donkey by her sister in order to establish 
another lien on us for buona mano, was a dirty little 
angel in rags, and her great, soft, black eyes will look 
somebody into the asylum or the drunkard's grave in 
time, I have no doubt. There was a stout, manly, hand- 
some little fellow of five years, who established himself 
as the guide and friend of the tallest of our party. His 
hat was nearly gone ; he was sadly out of repair in the 
rear ; his short legs made the act of walking absurd ; but 
he trudged up the hill with a certain dignity. And there 
was nothing mercenary about his attachment : he and his 
friend got upon very cordial terms ; they exchanged gifts 
of shells and copper coin, but nothing was said about pay. 
Nearly all the inhabitants, young and old, joined us 
in lively procession, up the winding road of three-quar- 
ters of a mile, to the town. At the deep gate, entering 
between thick walls, we stopped to look at the sea. The 
crowd and clamor at our landing had been so great, that 
we enjoyed the sight of the quiet old woman sitting here 
in the sun, and the few beggars almost too lazy to stretch 
out their hands. Within the gate is a large paved square, 
with the government offices and the tobacco-shop on one 
side, and the church opposite ; between them, up a flight 
of broad stone steps, is the Hotel Tiberio. Our donkeys 
walk up them and into the hotel. The church and hotel 
are six hundred years old ; the hotel was a villa belong- 
ing to Joanna H. of Naples. We climb to the roof of 
the quaint old building, and sit there to drink in the 
strange Oriental scene. The landlord says it is like 
Jafi'a or Jerusalem. The landlady, an Irish woman 
from Devonshire, says it is six francs a day. In what 
friendly intercourse the neighbors can sit on these flat 
roofs I How sightly this is, and yet how sheltered ! _ To 
the east is the height where Augustus, and after him Tibe- 
rius, built palaces. To the west, up that vertical wall, 
by means of five hundred steps cut in the face of the 
rock, we go to reach the table-land of Anacapri, the 
primitive village of that name, hidden from view here ; 



272 CAPRI. 

the mediaeval castle of Barbarossa, which hangs over a 
frightful precipice; and the height of Monte Solaro. 
The island is everywhere strewn with Koman ruins, and 
with faint traces of the Greeks. 

Capri turns out not to be a barren rock. Broken and 
picturesque as it is, it is yet covered with vegetation. 
There is not a foot, one might say a point, of soil that 
does not bear something ; and there is not a niche in the 
rock, where a scrap of dirt will stay, that is not made 
useful. The whole island is terraced. The most won- 
derful thing about it, after all, is its masonry. You come 
to think, after a time, that the island is not natural rock, 
but a mass of masonry. If the labor that has been 
expended here, only to erect platforms for the soil to rest 
on, had been given to our country, it would have built 
hcilf a dozen Pacific railways, and cut a canal through 
the Isthmus. 

But the Blue Grotto ? Oh, yes 1 Is it so blue ? That 
depends upon the time of day, the sun, the clouds, and 
something upon the person who enters it. It is fright- 
fully blue to some. We bend down in our row-boat, 
slide into the narrow opening which is three feet high, 
and, passing into the spacious cavern, remain there for 
half an hour. It is, to be sure, forty feet high, and a 
hundred by a hundred and fifty in extent, with an arched 
roof, and clear water for a floor. The water appears to 
be as deep as the roof is high, and is of a light, beautiful 
blue, in contrast with the deep blue of the bay. At the 
entrance the water is illuminated, and there is a pleasant, 
mild light within : one has there a novel subterranean 
sensation ; but it did not remind me of any thing I have 
seen in the " Arabian Nights." I have seen pictures of 
it that were much finer. 

As we rowed close to the precipice in returning, I saw 
many similar openings, not so deep, and perhaps only 
sham openings ; and the water-line was fretted to honey- 
comb by the eating waves. Beneath the water-line, and 
revealed here and there when the waves receded, was a 
line of bright red coral. 



THE STORY OF FIAMETTA. 

AT vespers on the fete of St. Antonino, and in his 
church, I saw the Signorina Fiametta. I stood 
leaning against a marble pillar near the altar-steps, 
during the service, when I saw the young girl kneeling 
on the pavement in act of prayer. Her black lace veil 
had fallen a little back from her head ; and there 
was something in her modest attitude and graceful 
figure, that made her conspicuous among all her kneel- 
ing companions, with their gay kerchiefs and bright 
gowns. When she rose and sat down, with folded hands 
and eyes downcast, there was something so pensive in 
her subdued mien, that I could not take my eyes from 
her. To say that she had the rich olive complexion, 
with the gold struggling through, large, lustrous black 
eyes, and harmonious features, is only to make a weak 
photograph, when I should paint a picture in colors, and 
infuse it with the sweet loveliness of a maiden on the way 
to sainthood. I was sure that I had seen her before, 
looking down from the balcony of a villa just beyond 
the Roman wall, for the face was not one that even the 
most unimpressible idler would forget. I was sure, that, 
young as she was, she had already a history ; had lived 
her life, and now walked amid these groves and old 
streets in a dream. The story which I heard is not long. 
In the drawing-room of the Villa Nardi, was shown, 
and offered for sale, an enormous counterpane, crocheted 
in white cotton. Loop by loop, it must have been an 
immense labor to knit it; for it was fashioned in pretty 

273 



274 THE STORY OF FIAMETTA. 

devices, and when spread out was rich and showy enough 
for the royal bed of a princess. It had been crocheted 
by Fiametta for her marriage, the only portion the poor 
child could bring to that sacrament. Alas ! the wedding 
was never to be ; and the rich work, into which her del- 
icate fingers had knit so many maiden dreams and hopes 
and fears, was offered for sale in the resort of strangers. 
It could not have been want only that induced her to put 
this piece of work in the market, but the feeling, also, 
that the time never again could return when she would 
have need of it. I had no desire to purchase such a mel- 
ancholy coverlet, but I could well enough fancy why she 
would wish to part with what must be rather a pall than 
a decoration in her little chamber. 

Fiametta lived with her mother in a little villa, the 
roof of which is in sight from my sunny terrace in the 
Villa Nardi, just to the left of the square old convent 
tower, rising there out of the silver olive-boughs, — a 
tumble-down sort of villa, with a flat roof and odd angles 
and parapets, in the midst of a thrifty but small grove of 
lemons and oranges. They were poor enough, or would 
be in any country where physical wants aregreater than 
here, and yet did not belong to that lowest class, the young 
girls of which are little more than beasts of burden, 
accustomed to act as porters, bearing about on their 
heads great loads of stone, wood, water, and baskets of 
oranges in the shipping season. She could not have been 
forced to such labor, or she never would have had the time 
to work that wonderful coverlet. 

Giuseppe was an honest and rather handsome young 
fellow of Sorrento, industrious and good-natured, who 
did not bother his head much about learning. He was, 
however, a skilful workman in the celebrated inlaid and 
mosaic wood-work of the place, and, it is said, had even 
invented some new figures for the inlaid pictures in col- 
ored woods. He had a little fancy for the sea as well, 
and liked to pull an oar over to Capri on occasion, by 
which he could earn a few francs easier than he could 



THE STORY OF FIAMETTA. 275 

saw them out of the orange-wood. For the stupid fel- 
low, who could not read a word in his prayer-book, had 
an idea of thrift in his head, and already, I suspect, was 
laying up liras with an object. There are one or two 
dandies in Sorrento who attempt to dress as they do in 
Naples. Giuseppe was not one of these ; but there was 
not a gayer or handsomer gallant than he on Sunday, or 
one more looked at by the Sorrento girls, when he had 
on his clean suit and his fresh red Phrygian cap. At 
least the good Fiametta thought so, when she met hirn 
at church, though I feel sure she did not allow even his 
handsome figure to come between her and the Virgin. 
At any rate, there can be no doubt of her sentiments 
after church, when she and her mother used to walk with 
him, along the winding Massa road above the sea, and 
stroll down to the shore to sit on the greensward over the 
Temple of Hercules, or the Roman Baths, or the remains 
of the villa of C. Fulvius Cunctatus Codes, or whatever 
those ruins subterranean are, there on the Capo di Sor- 
rento. Of course, this is mere conjecture of mine. They 
may have gone on the hills behind the town instead, or 
they may have stood leaning over the garden-wall of her 
mother's little villa, looking at the passers-by in the deep 
lane, thinking about nothing in the world, and talking 
about it all the sunny afternoon, until Ischia was purple 
with the last light, and the olive terraces behind them 
be^an to lose their gray bloom. All I do know is, that 

'111 

they were in love, blossoming out in it as the almond- 
trees do here in Feburary ; and that all the town knew 
it, and saw a wedding in the future, just as plain as you 
can see Capri from the heights above the town. 

It was at this time that the wonderful counterpane 
began to grow, to the continual astonishment of Giu- 
seppe, to whom it seemed a marvel of skill and patience, 
and who saw what love and sweet hope Fiametta was 
knitting into it with her deft fingers. I declare, as _ I 
think of it, the white cotton spread out on her knees, in 
such contrast to the rich olive of her complexion and 



276 THE STORY OF FIAMETTA. 

her black shiny hair, while she knits away so merrily, 
glancing up occasionally with those liquid, laughing eyes 
to Giuseppe, who is watching her as if she were an angel 
right out of the blue sky, I am tempted not to tell this 
story further, but to leave the happy two there at the 
open gate of life, and to believe that they entered in. 

This was about the time of the change of government, 
after this region had come to be a part of the Kingdom 
of Italy. After the first excitement was over, and the 
simple people found they were not all made rich, nor 
raised to a condition in which they could live without 
work, there began to be some dissatisfaction. Why the 
convents need have been suppressed, and especially the 
poor nuns packed ofi*, they couldn't see ; and then the 
taxes were heavier than ever before ; instead of being 
supported by the Government, they had to support it ; 
and, worst of all, the able young fellows must still go for 
soldiers. Just as one was learning his trade, or perhaps 
had acquired it, and was ready to earn his living and 
begin to make a home for his wife, he must pass the 
three best years of his life in the army. The conscrip- 
tion was relentless. 

The time came to Giuseppe, as it did to the others. 
I never heard but he was brave enough ; there was no 
storm on the Mediterranean that he dare not face in his 
little boat ; and he would not have objected to a cam- 
paign with the red shirts of Garibaldi. But to be torn 
away from his occupations by which he was daily laying 
aside a little for himself and Fiametta, and to leave her 
for three years, — that seemed dreadful to him. Three 
years is a long time ; and though he had no doubt of the 
pretty Fiametta, yet women are women, said the shrewd 
fellow to himself, and who knows what might happen, if 
a gallant came along who could read and write, as Fi- 
ametta could, and, besides, could play the guitar ? 

The result was, that Giuseppe did not appear at the 
mustering-office on the day set ; and, when the file of 
soldiers came lor him, he was nowhere to be found. He 



THE STORY OF FIAMETTA. 277 

had fled to the mountains. I scarcely know what his 
plan was, but he probably trusted to some good luck to 
escape the conscription altogether, if he could shun it 
now ; and, at least, I know that he had many comrades 
who did the same, so that at times the mountains were 
full of young fellows who were lurking in them to escape 
the soldiers. And they fared very roughly usually, and 
sometimes nearly perished from hunger ; for though the 
sympathies of the peasants were undoubtedly with the 
quasi outlaws rather than with the carbineers, yet the 
latter were at every hamlet in the hills, and liable to 
visit every hut, so that any relief extended to the fugi- 
tives was attended with great danger ; and, besides, the 
hunted men did not dare to venture from their retreats. 
Thus outlawed and driven to desperation by hunger, 
these fugitives, whom nobody can defend for running 
away from their duties as citizens, became brigands. A 
cynical German, who was taken by them some years ago 
on the road to Castellamare, a few miles above here, and 
held for ransom, declared that they were the most honest 
fellows he had seen in Italy ; but I never could see that 
he intended the remark as any compliment to them. It 
is certain that the inhabitants of all these towns held 
very loose ideas on the subject of brigandage : the poor 
fellows, they used to say, only robbed because they were 
hungry, and they must live somehow. 

What Fiametta thought, down in her heart, is not 
told : but I presume she shared the feelings of those 
about her concerning the brigands, and, when she heard 
that Giuseppe had joined them, was more anxious for the 
safety of his body than of his soul ; though I warrant she 
did not forget either, in her prayers to the Virgin and 
St. Antonino. And yet those must have been days, 
weeks, months, of terrible anxiety to the poor child ; and 
if she worked away at the counterpane, netting in that 
elaborate border, as I have no doubt she did, it must, 
have been with a sad heart and doubtful fingers. ^ I 
think that one of the psychological sensitives could dis- 
24 



278 THE STORY OF FIAMETTA, 

tinguish the parts of the bed-spread that were knit in the 
sunny days from those knit in the long hours of care and 
deepening anxiety. 

It was rarely that she received any message from him, 
and it was then only verbal and of the briefest ; he was 
in the mountains above Amalfi ; one day he had come 
so far round as the top of the Great St. Angelo, frcmi 
which he could look down upon the piano of Sorrento, 
where the little Fiametta was ; or he had been on the 
hills near Salerno, hunted and hungry ; or his company 
had descended upon some travellers going to Passtum, 
made a successful haul, and escaped into the steep 
mountains beyond. He didn't intend to become a regu- 
lar bandit, not at all. He hoped that something might 
happen so that he could steal back into Sorrento, un- 
marked by the Government ; or, at least, that he could 
escape away to some other country or island, where Fi- 
ametta could join him. Did she love him yet, as in the 
old, happy days ? As for him, she was now every thing 
to him ; and he would willingly serve three or thirty 
years in the army, if the Government could forget he had 
been a brigand, and permit him to have a little home 
with Fiametta at the end of the probation. There was 
not much comfort in all this, but the simple fellow could 
not send any thing more cheerful ; and I think it used 
to feed the little maiden's heart to hear from him, even 
in this downcast mood, for his love for her was a dear 
certainty, and his absence and wild life did not dim it. 

My informant does not know how long this painful 
life went on, nor does it matter much. There came a 
day when the Government was shamed into new vigor 
against the brigands. Some English people of conse- 
quence (the German of whom I have spoken was with 
them) had been captured, and it had cost them a heavy 
ransom. The number of the carbineers was quadrupled 
in the infested districts, soldiers penetrated the fastnesses 
of the hills, there were daily fights with the banditti ; and, 
to show that this was no sham, some of them were actu- 



THE STORY OF FIAMETTA. 279 

ally shot, and others were taken and thrown into prison. 
Among those who were not afraid to stand and fight, and 
who would not be captured, was our Giuseppe. One 
day the Italia newspaper of Naples had an account of a 
fight with brigands ; and in the list of those who fell was 

the name of Giuseppe , of Sorrento, shot through 

the head, as he ought to have been, and buried without 
funeral among the rocks. 

This was all. But, when the news was read in the 
little post-office in Sorrento, it seemed a great deal more 
than it does as I write it ; for, if Giuseppe had an enemy 
in the village, it was not among the people, and not one 
who heard the news did not think at once of the poor 
girl to whom it would be more than a bullet through the 
heart. And so it was. The slender hope of her Ufe 
then went out. I am told that there was little change 
outwardly, and that she was as lovely as before ; but a 
great cloud of sadness came over her, in which she was 
always enveloped, whether she sat at home, or walked 
abroad in the places where she and Giuseppe used to 
wander. The simple people respected her grief, and 
always made a tender-hearted stillness when the bereft 
little maiden went through the streets, — a stillness 
which she never noticed, for she never noticed any thing 
apparently. The bishop himself when he walked 
abroad could not be treated with more respect. 

This was all the story of the sweet Fiametta that was 
confided to me. And afterwards, as I recalled her pen- 
sive face that evening as she kneeled at vespers, I could 
not say whether, after all, she was altogether to be 
pitied, in the holy isolation of her grief, which I am sure 
sanctified her, and, in some sort, made her life complete. 
For I take it that life, even in this sunny Sorrento, is 
not alone a matter of time. 



ST. MARIA A CASTELLO. 

rr^HE Great St. Angelo and that region are supposed 
I to be tlie haunts of brigands. From those heights 
they spy out the land, and from thence have, more than 
once, descended upon the sea-road between Castellamare 
and Sorrento, and caught up Enghsh and German travel- 
lers. This elevation commands, also, the Paestum way. 
We have no faith in brigands in these days ; for, in all 
our remote and lonely explorations of this promontory, 
we have never met any but the most simple-hearted and 
good-natured people, who were quite as much afraid of 
us as we were of them. But there are not wanting 
stories, every day, to keep alive the imagination of 
tourists. 

We are waiting in the garden this sunny, enticing 
morning — just the day for a tramp among the purple 
hills — for our friend, the long Englishman., who prom- 
ised, over night, to go with us. This excellent, good- 
natured giant, whose head rubs the ceiling of any room 
in the house, has a wife who is fond of him, and in great 
dread of the brigands. He comes down with a sheepish 
air, at length, and informs us that his wife won't let him 
go. 

" Of course I can go, if I like," he adds. " But the 
fact is, I haven't slept much all night : she kept asking 
me if I was going ! '* On the whole, the giant don't 
care to go. There are things more to be feared than 
brigands. 

The expedition is, therefore, reduced to two unarmed 
280 



ST. MARIA A CASTELLO. 281 

persons. In tlie 'piazza we pick up a donkey and his 
driver, for use in case of accident; and, mounting the 
driver on tlie donkey, — an arrangement that seems en- 
tirely satisfactory to him, — we set forward. If any thing 
can bring back youth, it is a day of certain sunshine and 
a bit of unexplored country ahead, with a whole day in 
which to wander in it without a care or a responsibility. 
We walk briskly up the walled road of the piano^ strik- 
ing at the overhanging golden fruit with our staves ; 
greeting the orange-girls who come down the side lanes ; 
'chaffing with the drivers, the begsfars, the old women 
who sit in the sun ; looking into the open doors of houses 
and shops upon women weaving, boys and girls slicing 
up heaps of oranges, upon the makers of macaroni, the 
sellers of sour wine, the merry shoemakers, whose little 
dens are centres of gossip here as in all the East : the 
whole life of these people is open and social ; to be on 
the street is to be at home. 

We wind up the steep hill behind Meta, every foot of 
which is terraced for olive-trees, getting, at length, views, 
over the wayside wall, of the plain and bay, and rising 
into the purer air and the scent of flowers and other 
signs of coming spring, to the little village of Arola, 
with its church and bell, its beggars and idlers, — just a 
little street of houses jammed in between the hills of 
Camaldoli and Pergola, both of which we know well. 

Upon the cliff by Pergola is a stone house, in front of 
which I like to lie, looking straight down a thousand or 
two feet upon the roofs of Meta, the map of the plain, 
and the always fascinating bay. I went down the back- 
bone of the limestone ridge towards the sea the other 
afternoon, before sunset, and unexpectedly came upon a 
group of little stone cottages on a ledge, which are quite 
hidden from below. The'inhabitants were as much sur- 
prised to see a foreigner break through their seclusion as 
I was to come upon them. However, they soon recov- 
ered presence of mind to ask for a little money. Half 
a dozen old hags with the parchment skin sat upon the 
24* 



282 ST. MARIA A CASTELLO, 

rocks in tlie sun, spinning from distaffs, exactly as tlieir 
ancestors did in Greece two thousand years ago, I doubt 
not. I do not know that it is true, as Tasso wrote, that 
this climate is so temperate and serene that one almost 
becomes immortal in it. Since two thousand years all 
these coasts have changed more or less, risen and sunk, 
and the temples and palaces of two civilizations have 
tumbled into the sea. Yet I do not know but these 
tranquil old women have been sitting here on the rocks 
all the while, high above change and worry and decay, 
gossiping and spinning, like Fates. Their yarn must be 
uncanny. 

But we wander. It is difficult to go to any particular 
place here ; impossible to write of it in a direct manner. 
Our mule-path continues most delightful, by slopes of 
green orchards nestled in sheltered places, winding round 
gorges, deep and ragged with loose stones, and groups 
of rocks standing on the edge of precipices, like mediae- 
val towers, and through village after village tucked away 
in the hills. The abundance of population is a constant 
surprise. As we proceed, the people are wilder and 
much more curious about us, having, it is evident, seen 
few strangers lately. Women and children, half-dressed 
in dirty rags which do not hide the form, come out from 
their low stone huts upon the windy terraces, and stand, 
arms akimbo, staring at us, and, not seldom, hailing us 
in harsh voices. Their sole dress is often a single split 
and torn gown, not reaching to the bare knees, evidently 
the original of those in the Naples ballet (it will, no doubt, 
be different when those creatures exchange the ballet for 
the ballot) ; and, with their tangled locks and dirty faces, 
they seem rather beasts than women. Are their hus- 
bands brigands, and are they in wait for us in the chest- 
nut grove yonder ? 

The grove is charming ; and the men we meet there 
gathering sticks are not so surly as the women. They 
point the way ; and, when we emerge from the wood, St. 
Maria a Castello is before us on a height, its white and 



ST. MARIA A CASTELLO. 283 

red church shining in the sun. We climb up to it. In 
front is a broad, flagged terrace ; and on the edge are deep 
wells in the rock, from which we draw cool water. Plen- 
tifully victualed, one could stand a siege here, and per- 
haps did in the gamey Middle Ages. Monk or soldier 
need not wish a pleasanter place to lounge. Adjoining 
the church, but lower, is a long, low building with three 
rooms, at once house and stable, the stable in the centre, 
though all of them have hay in the lofts. The rooms do 
not communicate. That is the whole of the town of St. 
Maria a Castello. 

In one of the apartments, some rough-looking peasants 
are eating dinner, a frugal meal : a dish of unclean po- 
lenta, a plate of grated cheese, a basket of wormy figs, 
and some sour red wine ; no bread, no meat. They 
looked at us askance, and with no sign of hospitality. 
We made friends, however, with the ragged children, 
one of whom took great delight in exhibiting his litter of 
puppies ; and we at length so far worked into the good 
graces of the family, that the mother was prevailed upon 
to get us some milk and eggs. I followed the woman 
into one of the apartments to superintend the cooking 
of the eggs. It was a mere den, with an earth floor. A 
fire of twigs was kindled against the farther wall, and a 
little girl, half-naked, carrying a baby still more economi- 
cally clad, was stooping down to blow the smudge into a 
flame. The smoke, some of it, went over our heads out 
at the door. We boiled the eggs. We desired salt ; and 
the woman brought us pepper in the berry. We insisted 
on salt, and at length got the rock variety, which we 
pounded on the rocks. We ate our eggs and drank our 
milk on the terrace, with the entire family interested 
spectators. The men were the hardest-looking ruffians 
we had met yet : they were making a bit of road near 
by, but they seemed capable of turning their hands to 
easiei: money-getting ; and there couldn't be a more con- 
venient place than this. 

When our repast was over, and I had drank a glass 



284 ST. MARIA A CASTE LLO. 

of wine with the proprietor, I offered to pay him, ten- 
dering what I knew was a fair price in this region. 
With some indignation of gesture, he refused it, intimat- 
ing that it was too little. He seemed to be seeking an 
excuse for a quarrel with us ; so I pocketed the affront, 
money and all, and turned away. He appeared to be 
surprised, and going in-doors presently came out with a 
bottle of wine and glasses, and followed us down upon 
the rocks, pressing us to drink. Most singular conduct ; 
no doubt drugged wine ; travellers put into deep sleep ; 
robbed ; thrown over precipice ; diplomatic correspond- 
ence, flattering, but no compensation to them. Either 
this, or a case of hospitality. We dechned to drink, 
and the brigand went away. 

We sat down upon the jutting ledge of a precipice, 
the like of. which is not in the world: on our left, the 
rocky, bare side of St. Angelo, against which the sun- 
shine dashes in waves ; below us, sheer down two thou- 
sand feet, the city of Positano, a nest of brown houses, 
thickly clustered on a conical spur, and lying along the 
shore, the home of three thousand people, — with a run- 
ning jump I think I could land in the midst of it, — a 
pygmy city, inhabited by mites, as we look down upon it ; 
a little beach of white sand, a sail-boat lying on it, and 
some fishermen just embarking; a long hotel on the 
beach; beyond, by the green shore, a country seat 
charmingly situated amid trees and vines ; higher up, the 
ravine-seamed hill, little stone huts, bits of ruin, towers, 
arches. How still it is ! All the stiller that I can, now 
and then, catch the sound of an axe, and hear the shouts 
of some children in a garden below. How still the sea 
is ! How many ages has it been so ? Does the purple 
mist always hang there upon the waters of Salerno Bay, 
forever hiding from the gaze Paestum and its temples, 
and all that shore which is so much more Grecian than 
Roman ? 

After all, it is a satisfaction to turn to the towering 
rock of St. Angelo ; not a tree, not a shrub, not a spire 



ST. MARIA A CASTELLO. 285 

of grass, on its perpendicular side. We try to analyze 
the satisfaction there is in such a bald, treeless, verdure- 
less mass. We can grasp it intellectually, in its sharp 
solidity, which is undisturbed by any ornament : it is, to 
the mind, like some complete intellectual performance ; 
the mind rests on it, like a demonstration in Euclid. 
And yet what a color of beauty it takes on in the 
distance ! 

When we return, the bandits have all gone to their 
road-making : the suspicious landlord is nowhere to be 
seen. We call the woman from the field, and give her 
money, which she seemed not to expect, and for which 
she shows no gratitude. Life appears to be indifferent 
to these people. But, if these be brigands, we prefer 
them to those of Naples, and even to the inn-keepers of 
England. As we saunter home in the pleasant after- 
noon, the vesper-bells are calling to each other, making 
the sweetest echoes of peace everywhere in the hills, and 
all the piano is jubilant with them, as we come down 
the steeps at sunset. 

" You see there was no danger," said the giant to his 
wife, that evening, at the supper-table. 

" You would have found there was danger, if you had 
gone,'* returned the wife of the giant significantly. 



THE MYTH OF THE SIRENS. 

I LIKE to walk upon the encircling ridge behind Sor- 
rento, which commands both bays. From there I 
can look down upon the Isles of the Sirens. The top is 
a broad, windy strip of pasture, which falls off abruptly 
to the Bay of Salerno on the south : a regular embank- 
ment of earth runs along the side of the precipitous 
steeps, towards Sorrento. It appears to be a line of 
defence for musketry, such as our armies used to throw 
up : whether the French, who conducted siege operations 
from this promontory on Capri, under Murat, had a,ny 
thing to do with it, does not appear. 

Walking there yesterday, we met a woman — shep- 
herdess, cowherd, or siren — standing guard over three 
steers while they fed ; a scantily-clad, brown woman, 
who had a distaff in her hand, and spun the flax as she 
watched the straying cattle, — an example of double 
industry which the men who tend herds never imitate. 
Very likely her ancestors so spun and tended cattle on 
the plains of Thessaly. We gave the rigid woman good- 
morning, but she did not heed or reply ; we made some 
inquiries as to paths, but she ignored us ; we bade her 
good-day, and she scowled at us : she only spun. She 
was so out of tune with the people, and the gentle influ- 
ences of this region, that we could only regard her as an 
anomaly, — the representative of some perversity and evil 
genius, which, no doubt, lurks here as it does elsewhere in 
the world. She could not have descended from either 
286 



THE MYTH OF THE SIRENS. 287 

» 
of the groups of the Sirens ; for she was not fascinating 
enough to be fatal. 

I like to look upon these islets or rocks of the Sirens, 
barren and desolate, with a few ruins of the Roman time 
and remains of the Middle-Age prisons of the doges of 
Amalfi ; but I do not care to dissipate any illusions by 
going to them. I remember how the Sirens sat on flow- 
ery meads by the shore, and sang, and are vulgarly 
supposed to have allured passing mariners to a life of 
ignoble pleasure, and then let them perish, hungry with 
all unsatisfied lon2;ino;s. The bones of these unfortunates, 
whitening on the rocks, of which Virgil speaks, I could 
not see. Indeed, I think any one who lingers long in this 
region will doubt if they were ever there, and will come 
to believe that the characters of the Sirens are popularly 
misconceived. Allowing Ulysses to be only another 
name for the sun-god, who appears in myths as Indra, 
Apollo, William Tell, the sure-hitter, the great archer, 
whose arrows are sunbeams, it is a degrading conception 
of him that he was obliged to lash himself to the mast 
when he went into action with the Sirens, like Farragut 
at Mobile, though for a very different reason. We should 
be forced to believe that Ulysses was not free from the 
basest mortal longings, and that he had not strength of 
mind to resist them, but must put himself in durance ; as 
our moderns, who cannot control their desires, go into 
inebriate asylums. 

Mr. Ruskin says that " the Sirens are the great con- 
stant desires, the infinite sicknesses of heart, which, 
rightly placed, give life, and, wrongly placed, waste it 
away ; so that there are two groups of Sirens, — one noble 
and saving, as the other is fatal." Unfortunately we are 
all, as were the Greeks, ministered unto by both those 
groups, but can fortunately, on the other hand, choose 
which group we will listen to the singing of, though the 
strains are somewhat mingled ; as, for instance, in the 
modern opera, where the music quite as often wastes 
life away, as gives to it the energy of pure desire. Yet, 



288 THE MYTH OF THE SIRENS, 

if I were to locate tlie Sirens geographically, I should 
place the beneficent desires on this coast, and the danger- 
ous ones on that of wicked Baise ; to which group the 
founder of Naples no doubt belonged. 

Nowhere, perhaps, can one come nearer to the beau- 
tiful myths of Greece, the springlike freshness of the 
idyllic and heroic age, than on this Sorrentine promon- 
tory. It was no chance that made these coasts the home 
of the kind old monarch Eolus, inventor of sails and 
storm- siojuals. On the Teleo;rafo di Mare Cuccola is a 
rude signal-apparatus for communication with Capri, — 
to ascertain if wind and wave are propitious for entrance 
to the Blue Grotto, — which probably was not erected by 
Eolus, although he doubtless used this sightly spot as 
one of his stations. That he dwelt here, in great content, 
with his six sons and six daughters, the Months, is nearly 
certain ; and I feel as sure that the Sirens, whose islands 
were close at hand, were elevators and not destroyers of 
the primitive races living here. 

It seems to me this must be so ; because the pilgrim, 
who surrenders himself to the influences of these peace- 
ful and sun-inundated coasts, under this sky which the 
bright Athena loved and loves, loses, by and by, those 
longings and heart-sicknesses which waste away his life, 
and comes under the dominion, more and more, of those 
constant desires after that which is peaceful and endur- 
ing and has the saving quality of purity. I know, indeed, 
that it is not always so ; and that, as Boreas is a better 
nurse of rugged virtue than Zephyr, so the soft influences 
of this clime only minister to the fatal desires of some : 
and such are likely to sail speedily back to Naples. 

The Sirens, indeed, are everywhere ; and I do not know 
that we can go anywhere that we shall escape the infi- 
nite longings, or satisfy them. Here, in the purple twi- 
light of history, they offered men the choice of good and 
evil. I have a fancy, that, in stepj^ing out of the whirl 
of modern life upon a quiet headland, so blessed of two 
powers, the air and the sea, wc are able to come to a 



THE MYTH OF THE SIRENS. 289 

truer perception of tlie drift of the eternal desires within 
us. But I cannot say whether it is a subtle fascination, 
linked with these mythic and moral influences, or only 
the physical loveliness of this promontory, that lures 
travellers hither, and detains them on flowery meads. 



In the wigdom and wit of the thoughts, and the grrace 
of the style, this book is so good as to bring to the read- 
er's mind now Holmes, then Curtis, and again Mitchell, 
and finally leave the conviction that this new author is 
neither one nor the other, but quite the peer of either. 

— SPRINGFtELD REPUBLICAN. 



MY SUMMER IN A GARDEN. 

BY CHAELES DUDLEY WAENEK. 

WITH AN INTEODUCTORY LETTER FROM REV. HENRY 
WARD BEECHER. 

1 Tol. 16mo, Sl.OO. Illustrated Edition, with 13 full- 
page Pictures by Darley, $3.00. 



Next to rambling with the author through his garden, is the 
pleasure of reading his spicy descriptions in this volume. He is one 
of the most delightful companions that you will meet with on a 
summer day or at the winter fireside. You cannot open his hook 
without lighting on something fresh and fragrant. Every page 
abounds with mellow and juicy fruits, showing that whatever suc- 
cess may attend his use of the hoe and spade, he knows how to 
handle the pen with admirable effect. — New -York Tribune. 

This is a set of humorous papers describing the experiences of an 
amateur who busies himself for the first time with the cultivation of 
a garden, humorous with that quiet humor in which, as well as in 
its very antipodes, the wildly extravagant, the Americans seem to 
excel. How he struggles against birds and weeds and all the ene- 
mies of his craft, how his friends perplex him with their advice, 
how his neighbors torment him with the intrusion of their four- 
footed and two-footed cattle, is told in the pleasantest fashion. — 
The Spectator {London). 

Several times last summer the inquiry was made of us by friends 
going into the country for a rest, "What is a good book to read 
aloud?" We invariably answered, "Get 'My Summer in a Gar- 
den,' " which is distinctively a book to be enjoyed in common 
with one's friends. The only objection to it in this character lies 
in the fact that the inevitable outbursts of laughter excited by 
its delicious humor are likely to mar the beauty of the reader's elo- 
cution. — The Literary World. 

We advise all who wish to read a thoroughly charming book to 
procure "My Summer in a Garden." There is a rich, hearty, de- 
licious laugh in store for them there in every page. — Chicago Post. 

*** For sale by all Booksellers. Sent, postpaid, on receipt of 
price by the Publishers, 

JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO., Boston. 



H. H. lias gone little out of the beaten track of travel, 
and yet lier sketches are as fresh as though they -were 
Eve's joiirual in the garden of Udeu. — New-Tobk Evening 
Mail. 



BITS OF TRAVEL. 



By H. H. 

1 vol. lemo. $1.50. 



There are ten of these "bits" by themselves, of which the first 
is that most inimitable sketch entitled "A German Landlady," a 
portraiture quaint and simple as possible, yet full of poetry and 
pathos as one of Whittier's ballads. After these ten chapters come 
the "Encyclicals of a Traveller." The whole book is charming; 
yet it is not easy to analyze its charm or to dissect its beauty, any 
more than one can describe to an utter stranger the pleasure of an 
interview with a delightful conversationist : it must be heard to be 
enjoyed. So the best way to know about this little gem of a book 
is to read it through : it will be found an easy task, only too soon 
accomplished. — Detroit Tribune. 

Some one has said, that, if one could open the mail-bags, and read 
the women's letters, they would be more entertaining than any 
books. This volume is an open mail-bag, forwarded from Germany 
or Rome or the Tyrol. The faded wonders of Europe turn out to 
be wholly fresh when seen through a fresh pair of eyes, and so the 
result is very charming. As for the more elaborate sketch of " A 
German Landlady," it cannot be forgotten by any reader of " The 
Atlantic." It comprises so much, — such humor, such pathos, such 
bewitching quaintness of dialect, — that I can at this moment think 
of no American picture of a European subject to equal it. It is, of 
course, the best thing in the volume; but every page is readable, 
and almost all delightful. — T. W. Higginson. 

The present sketches of travel display an exuberant vivacity; 
the gayest humor is expressed in the most natural language; the 
spirit of each scene is transferred to the living page ; and, with no 
effort for effect, the writer revives her own experience in the sym- 
pathies of the reader. Her book deals chiefly in common things, 
but is never commonplace. She gives the originality of her own im- 
pressions to familiar objects, furnishing even the sated vision of 
tourists with fresh views of their accustomed haunts. The ease of 
her descriptions is no less remarkable than their brilliancy. — New- 
York Tribune. 

It is entertaining and readable from cover to cover. — Hartford 
Courant. 

Rich in graphic, picturesque descriptions ; charming alike through 
its freshness, simplicity, and originality of thought. — Worcester 
Palladium. 

*** For sale by all Booksellers. Sent, postpaid, on receipt of 
price by the Publishers, 

JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO., Boston. 



Turning over these pages is like gathering around a 
fireside to listen to the bright and entertaining stories 
of a friend who has travelled, and kept his eyes well open. 
Only Mr. Hoppin's pencil is more eloquent and witty 
than most men's tongues. — Boston Journal. 



UPS AND DOWNS ON LAND 
AND WATER. 

THE EUROPEAN TOUR IN A SERIES OF PICTURES. 

By AUGUSTUS HOPPIN. 

Oblong Folio. ^10.00. 



" Ups and Downs on Land and Water," by Augustus Hoppin, is 
fairly an outbreak of graphic genius. It consists of a pictorial de- 
lineation of picturesque places, and humorous cliai-acters, seen or 
encountered in theEai-opean tour through England, France. Swit- 
zerland, and G-erniany. It is a notable and unique production. 
With the exception, perhaps, of the humorous sketches of Mr. 
Richard Doyle, we know of no volume in whieh the pencil plays 
such delightful pranks, or any that overflows with so much humor 
and quaiutness. The striking vigor and boldness in the designs, 
moreover, are entirely admirable, apart from the humorous conceits 
which the compositions exhibit. Mr. Hoppin obtains by this book 
the foremost rank as a graphic and humorous artist. — Appletons 
Journal. 

These sketches, forty-eight in number, tell the story of a summer 
tour abroad, as no written words could tell it, though from the wifc 
tiest newspaper correspondent who ever handled a pen. For here, 
in a glance, we get the scenic effect, tlie ''situations," tlie person- 
ality, which gives us at once more than a dozen paragraphs. . . . No 
newspaper space will allow us to do justice, step by step, and sail 
by sail, through this enchanting book of summer travel. And yet; 
when we have said this word or two, we want to say much more 
about all the inimitable sketches which make uji the forty-eiglit pic 
tures of this summer tour. — Providence Journal. 

The drawings, which are very many, from wee bits to full-page 
size, are very remarkable for their offhand, sketch}', clever treat- 
ment, — which has been retained completely by a new process, — 
and their merit as art- work of this fashion. They comprise portraits 
of compac/nons clu voyage., incidents of travel, street scenes, and the 
like, whose humor is as admirable as mirth-provoking. A volume 
of Leech's sketches could not be more diverting. — New - York Even- 
ing Mail. 

*^* For sale by all Booksellers. Sent, postpaid, on receipt of 
price by the Publishers, 

JAMES R. OSGOOD &. CO., Boston. 



*' Mountaineering in the Sierra Nevada " is one of the 
most marked books of the year, — one of the freshest, 
most original and entertaining. — San Francisco Bulletin. 



Mountaineering in the Sierra Nevada. 

By CLAREIS^CE KING, 

United States Geologist. 

1 vol., large 13mo S3.50. 



Clarence King's " Mountaineering in the Sierra Nevada " is a real 
book among books. And it has so many separate merits that one is 
like to obscure the other. The intelligent record of exploration in 
the conquest of the highest peaks of the continent is a positive con- 
tribution to several sciences of the highest value : reported tech- 
nically elsewhere, it is here given in popular form. We ai*e all 
fascinated by Professor Tyndall's singularly clear and simple de- 
scriptions of his Alpine ascents; but he has done nothing better 
than King's account of the ascent of the giant mountain which, by 
right of discovery, he named Mount Tyndall. Mr. Whymper's 
'• Scrambles among the Alps," with their graphic pictures of pei-il, 
strike the imagination. Clarence King and his comrade, without a 
guide, and remote from any human aid, encounter dangers and sur- 
mount obstacles of certainly Alpine magnitude, and narrate them 
without the least air of heroism. — Hartford Cour ant. 

A book bracing in tone, vivid in description, exciting in adventure, 
and abounding in valuable information. Since Tyndall's volume on 
the Alps, we have i*ead nothing so vigorous and stimulating as Mr. 
King's narrative of moimtain exploration ; and it exceeds Tyndall's 
in the novelty of its subject. The accounts of the ascent of Mount 
Tyndall, of Mount Shasta, and Mount Whitney are records of 
"brave campaigns into the unknown realm of Nature." as full of 
danger as of excitement. — E. P. Whipple, in Boston Globe. 

There is a glorious ailment called " mountain fever;" happy is 
the man who catches it. It is not altogether dependent on elevation, 
and is endemic among the smaller mountains hereabouts — the Cats- 
kills and the Adirondacks — as well as in the Alps; but to have it in 
its fulness of glory, one must seek the snow-capped hills. Perhaps 
the next best way is to catch it from this contagious book of Clarence 
King's, " Mountaineering in the Sierra Nevada." — New -York Even- 
ing Mail. 

His descriptions of scenery and adventure among the high Sierras 
rival the best narratives of Alpine climbers, and he draws the 
strange characters whom he meets v\rith a sureness and delicacy of 
touch not often equalled. — Worcester Spy. 



*** For sale by all Booksellers. Sent, postpaid, on receipt of 
•ice by the Publishers, 

^ * ^ 9 6'*^'^^^ ^' OSGOOD & CO., Boston. 



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